


Big Poppa

by zuotian



Category: South Park
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Artist Kenny, Entrepreneur Cartman, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Marriage, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Inaccuracies, Money Laundering Schemes, Mpreg, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Drug Addiction, Subject to Revisions, Switching, The World of Fine Art, Trope Subversion, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24482413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuotian/pseuds/zuotian
Summary: Kenny and Cartman try for a baby. In between fertility problems, potential pregnancy complications, and fragile egos, Cartman's shady real estate hustle poses hurdles of its own. The situation is complicated further when internationally-renowned graffiti artist, Banksy, levies a confusing proposition. Kenny begins to question Cartman's business motives and the strength of their relationship, while their friends watch on in concern (and occasional condescension) as they prepare for the arrival of their child.Sequel toIt's Harder to Need It but so Easily Wanted.
Relationships: Eric Cartman/Kenny McCormick, Kyle Broflovski/Leopold "Butters" Stotch, Stan Marsh/Wendy Testaburger
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm probably shooting myself in the foot posting this. i wanted to write the entire draft in full before posting anything, but i've been working on this for half a year now and i'm losing steam. hopefully having the work up will motivate me to push through. i've got eight chapters worth of buffer; i intend on updating every week or two so i don't fall behind. 
> 
> this is my first serious longfic...ever. and my first real sequel. the original fic, [It's Harder to Need It but so Easily Wanted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22038226), was not written with the intention of a sequel. in case of inevitable continuity errors, take this fic as canon over the previous. full chapter count will be somewhere in the late teens/early twenties i presume. 
> 
> as with the previous fic, the ABO stuff will be subverted/satirizied to a certain degree. on the other hand i've striven to legitimize it a bit by adapting real medical info researched from google dot com. i'll go into that more at pertinent chapters. and of course there's a wacky b plot. mpreg is featured heavily--it's the whole basis of the story. i'm depicting it as far away from the general fandom interpretation as possible, but as the ancient proverb goes: don't like, don't read. 
> 
> ABO cheat sheet:  
> cartman -- alpha/omega  
> kenny -- beta  
> stan -- beta  
> wendy -- alpha  
> kyle -- alpha  
> butters -- omega 
> 
> this story means a lot to me. i've never worked on the same project for such an extended period of time, nor have i ever embarked on a project of this scope. i'm trying not to be such a perfectionist with the prose/pacing/plot because otherwise i'd be reworking it forever. so please have mercy on me for awkward mistakes lol. 
> 
> the fic is set about a year after the previous fic's mini epilogue, or two years after the main story. 
> 
> with all that being said, i hope you enjoy.

ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FANFICTION—EVEN THOSE BASED ON A REAL SHOW—ARE ENTIRELY GRATUITOUS. ALL CANONICAL DIALOGUE IS IMPERSONATED ... POORLY. THE FOLLOWING FANFICTION CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND DUE TO ITS CONTENT IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE.

If Kenny still doubted Cartman’s commitment to childbearing, those doubts were now assuaged by the fact that Cartman had voluntarily allowed a speculum up his asshole. 

Cartman detested anything medical--the dentist, the optometrist, the general practitioner. He was technically anti-vax on account of never re-upping his flu shots. But he had an iron gut and an ironclad constitution. He could rough out any sickness through sheer willpower alone. And yet nobody could rough their way into prenatal preparations, especially if they were a quasi-chimera. 

So here they found themselves at a fertility clinic in Denver, surrounded by wallprints of ripe flowers and giggling babies: Cartman reclined on a raised cot, Kenny beside him holding his hand, the starchy hospital gown bunched over Cartman’s thighs hiding the seated endocrinologist from view. 

“You need to relax,” the nurse over the doctor’s shoulder advised. “This’ll go much smoother if you do.” 

“Fuck you,” Cartman spat. 

“We’re almost done,” the doctor assured. 

Kenny squeezed Cartman’s hand. “Did you hear that, baby? It’s about over.” 

“I am going to stimulate your posterior seminal gland,” the doctor announced. 

Cartman lifted his head. “My fucking what?” 

Kenny quelled him with an arm across his chest. “Just let ‘em work, Eric.” 

“It activates discharge production during intercourse,” the nurse explained. She wore brightly-colored scrubs to make up for her bland personality. “Located behind your prostate, it closes your rectal tract and reroutes your husband’s sperm towards your uterus. It essentially acts like an epiglottis. We just want to make sure that it’s operating properly.”

The exposition bored Cartman enough to lower his head. “You ever slice somebody’s colon and they went septic?” 

“That has never happened under my care, no,” the doctor said. “You’re in good hands, Mr. Cartman.” His bespectacled smile appeared above Cartman’s tented gown. “Curette, please.” 

The nurse retrieved a thin rod from a metal tray of sanitized instruments. “Here you go.” 

Cartman paled. “What’s that for?” 

The doctor ducked beneath Cartman’s curtained legs once more. “We need to collect a sample. This requires a bit of precision, given that you are not currently aroused.”

“This is the least arousing thing I’ve ever experienced,” Cartman griped. He glanced at Kenny. “Worse than the time we walked in on Kyle and Butters at Stan and Wendy’s Christmas party.” 

“That was pretty bad,” Kenny agreed. “Just keep looking at me. Keep talking.” 

“Because there’s a trove of conversation starters in this place.” Cartman’s gaze narrowed at the monochromatic infants displayed on the wall. “Those babies won’t stop staring at me with their soulless eyes.” 

“Three, two, one,” the doctor counted. 

“Holy shit!” Cartman’s spine arched off the cot. “What the hell--”

Kenny pressed his arm deeper into Cartman’s chest. “Breathe, man.” 

“You try breathing with a fucking knife up your butt,” Cartman snarled. 

Slick squelched out of his ass onto the butcher paper lining the cot. “Voilà,” the doctor cheered. He cranked the speculum closed. 

Cartman relaxed, face pinched with pain. “Is it over? Please tell me it’s over.”

“The intrusive examination is, yes,” the nurse said. She scraped the end of curette into a small vial. “We’ll send this to the lab with your blood and urine.” 

“Fucking Christ,” he exhaled. “I didn’t know this would be an all-day operation.” 

The doctor folded Cartman’s gown over his knees and patted his leg. “Carrying a child is serious business, Mr. Cartman. Especially so in your case.” 

Cartman glared at the ceiling. “I get it. I’m a freak.” 

The doctor snapped his gloves off and tossed them onto the instrument tray. “Untrue. Biological sex is a varied spectrum. There are groups I could recommend--”

“I’m not going to Hermaphrodites Anonymous or whatever the hell,” Cartman cut off. 

“Just know that you are not alone in your struggles. A number of, shall we say, dimporhic patients have had successful pregnancies.” The doctor lost his sprightly tone. “That being said, it is not without complications.” 

Kenny’s breath hitched. Cartman looked at him, then at the doctor. “What do you mean?” 

“It isn’t necessarily cause for alarm,” the doctor assured. “Merely caution. We’ll know more once we get your test results. Hormonal fluctuations, intercessory ruts, et cetera--this sets you apart from other male omegas. It is the same with female alphas, more or less.” 

“It’s not gonna hurt him, is it?” Kenny asked. “Or the baby?” 

“We’ll set up a regimen of hormones to level things out,” the doctor said. 

“And what, cancel all my alpha shit?” Cartman asked. “I’m not about sissification.” 

The doctor chuckled. “Your alpha functions will proceed as normal, do not worry.” He winked at Kenny. “Either of you.” 

The nurse stepped forward with a plastic cup. “We’ll do the urine test first, then take a blood sample so you can go home and rest afterward.”

Cartman wrestled into a sitting position. “I’m not gonna rest. I can’t rest. We’ve got therapy next.” 

“That’s wonderful,” the doctor commented, scribbling on his clipboard. “I’ve witnessed too many couples start a family without a proper emotional foundation. It’s quite unfortunate.” 

“Our foundation used to be on real shitty bedrock,” Cartman quipped. “Built on top of a fault line. On the edge of a cliff.” 

“Not anymore, though,” Kenny said for his own benefit. “We’re solid.” 

Cartman’s bare feet slapped onto the tiled floor. “Come help me piss, sweetheart.” 

They slipped down the hall, into a single stall bathroom that reeked of cottony air freshener. 

Cartman immediately draped over Kenny’s side once he locked the door. “I hate this.”

Kenny rubbed his back. “I know, baby.”

“That doctor’s a weirdo. And the nurse is an ice cold bitch.”

“You’re the one who picked this place.”

“Because it was the most expensive.”

“They sound like they know what they’re talking about.”

“That guy just wants to stimulate my posterior seminal gland. Bet he gets off on it, too.” Cartman rubbed his nose on Kenny’s shoulder, then stomped towards the toilet. “Come, grasp my penis in your loving hand.”

Kenny knelt on the tile. Cartman passed the plastic cup and lifted his gown. Kenny steepled the cup’s base with his fingers, held Cartman’s cock with his other hand, and waited.

“I can’t,” Cartman huffed. 

“Think of waterfalls,” Kenny suggested. “Think of that waterpark we went to when we were kids.”

Cartman’s lips quirked. “Heh. Alright.” 

The cup warmed with Cartman’s piss beneath Kenny’s fingertips. “There you go, see?” He paused before screwing the lid on, eyebrows raised. “Dare me to take a sip?” 

“Quit fooling around,” Cartman admonished. “We’re supposed to be mature, prospective parents, here.” 

“I’m just kidding.” Kenny secured his husband’s urine and rose, knees crackling. “I would’ve done it, though, if you’d dared me.” 

“You’d jump off a bridge if I dared you.”

“I did, remember? Back in tenth grade?” 

“I remember the river was too shallow and you broke your goddamn ankle.” Cartman wrapped his big arms around Kenny’s rail-thin waist. “Our kid’s gonna be drinking piss and jumping off bridges if we aren’t careful.” 

Kenny smiled down at him. “Nuh-uh. Our kid’s gonna be totally awesome. My right brain, your left brain. They’re gonna be a genius.”

“We gotta make sure we can have it, first,” Cartman said. 

Kenny kissed the frown off his mouth. “We will. You heard the doctor. Stuff like this happens all the time.” 

“They just say that to make you feel better. Like if you show up with a pencil stuck in your urethra. We’ve seen it all, they’ll say. Bullshit. They haven’t seen nothing.” 

“I didn’t know you were into sounding.”

“I’ve been marathoning Sex Sent Me to the E.R. It’s pretty inspirational.”

Kenny wiggled free, the piss cup held tight in his hand. “We should go back.” 

“Aw, can’t we hide for a little longer?” Cartman whined. “Please?” 

“The sooner we get this over with the sooner we can leave.”

“And the sooner we have to sit on Diandra's couch.”

“And then we’ll go home.”

Cartman shook his head. “Not me. I’m dropping you off. I gotta check the properties.” 

“Man,” Kenny sighed. “You’re supposed to be having a baby. That’s gonna be your new full-time job.” 

“I work best multi-tasking.”

Kenny eased back into Cartman’s arms. He was magnetic; Kenny hated it. “I don’t like that you go alone.” 

“We aren’t renting out to a bunch of meth heads—” 

“I’m talking about the warehouses. The whole industrial district’s sketchy as fuck.” 

“Which is why I don’t let you come with me.” Cartman pinched Kenny’s chin, tilted his head down. “I’m always packing heat. I know what I’m doing.” 

“But you’re gonna cut it out when the baby comes, right?” 

“We put a lot of money into this.” 

“You put money into it. I didn’t. This is all your gig.” 

“And it’ll pay off. Long as I’m not waddling, I’m going. Kids are expensive. We need the cash.” 

“No we don’t,” Kenny scowled. “I got commissions out the wazoo since the MoMA. We don’t need any more money.” 

“Okay, fine,” Cartman relented. “We might not need money. But if there’s money to be had, I’m getting it.” 

Kenny muffled an exasperated grunt into his shoulder. “Why can’t you just be happy?” 

Cartman threaded his fingers through Kenny’s hair. “I’m very happy. I’m the happiest I’ve been my entire life. What gave the impression I wasn’t?” 

“You always want more stuff. You don’t know when to stop.” 

“That’s just who I am, sugar. I want more for me. And for you. And for our kid.” 

“Okay. Whatever.” 

“You aren’t mad, are you?” Cartman caught Kenny’s wrist as he stepped away. “Tell me you’re not mad.” 

“I’m not mad,” Kenny promised. “It’s just one of these days this is all gonna bite you in the ass. I’d rather not have my unborn child in jeopardy when it happens.” 

Cartman released him. “Okay. That’s fair. We’ll talk about it with Diandra later.” 

After wrapping up the doctor’s appointment they stopped at a McDonald’s drive-thru and ate in their therapist’s parking lot. They used to smoke cigarettes after every meal but were quitting cold turkey--Cartman for obvious reasons, and Kenny in solidarity. They dropped onto Diandra’s Freudian loveseat, Cartman chewing spearmint gum and Kenny gnawing on a toothpick, neither of the oral fixations particularly assuaged. 

Diandra sat across from them in a giant leather chair. Her office was decked out similarly Baroque. She charged one-hundred bucks per hour, and after two years of seeing her they’d financed the majority of her interior design. 

“Hello, gentlemen,” she greeted, black pantyhose stretched over her legs, a chunky necklace laying atop the lapels of her blazer. Cartman got paranoid when she wrote stuff down; she ditched the memo pad early on and instead cataloged their psyches with her laser eyes. “How have you been?” 

“Well,” Cartman said, “I just had my asshole speared open for an hour straight.” 

“Your fertility appointment?” 

Cartman blew a bubble, popped it with his teeth. “Yup.” 

“How was it?” 

“Torturous. I hate doctors.” 

“You mentioned that when we discussed beginning the process.” Diandra looked at Kenny. “How did it go for you?” 

Kenny blinked. “Uh--it was fine. I mean, I wasn’t the one on the slab.” 

“Still,” Diandra prompted. 

Kenny flicked his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “I dunno. The doctor said there might be complications. That kind of wigged me out.” 

Cartman placed his hand on Kenny’s thigh. “It’s nothing. He only said that so we’d have to pay for unnecessary shit.”

“You should not be so quick to eschew medical opinion,” Diandra cautioned. “If not for your own good, then for your child’s.” 

“I guess,” Cartman said. He straightened against Kenny’s side. “I mean, obviously. I’m not a fucking deadbeat like my old man.” 

“Clearly. Otherwise you wouldn’t have subjected yourself to the ordeal in the first place. But the buck doesn’t stop there. You must follow through.” 

“It’s not just the doctors. I gotta get on hormones or something. Estrogen, maybe, I bet. I’ll probably grow tits.” 

“That’s because you’ve got too much testosterone in your system. I wouldn’t look at it as emasculation. Rather, it’s the opposite.” 

“Hard not to feel like a bitch when all I’ve got to compare myself to is bitches like Butters.”

Kenny put his hand over Cartman’s. “That’s not true. The doctor told you lots of other guys have kids, and they aren’t full blown omegas.” 

“And I told you that was a ruse.” 

“Eric,” Diandra said. He and Kenny both turned. “Perhaps you should wait.” 

Cartman’s lips pursed. “Excuse me?” 

“If you’ve still got so many hangups perhaps you aren’t ready to have a child.”

“Fuck that. I’m fucking ready. I don’t give a fuck.” 

Diandra grinned. He always fell for her make-him-angry tactic. “If that’s how you truly feel, then why the fuss?” 

“People make assumptions. They see me walking around all engorged, the first thing they’re gonna think is I’m Kenny’s broodmare, that he’s the alpha--” He tightened his grip on Kenny’s leg. “When I wear the fucking pants in this relationship.”

“Not everyone holds the same antiquated opinions as you do,” Diandra said. “Your own internalized prejudices are not shared by the rest of the world.” 

“How the hell did you think I internalized them?” 

“Insecurity and shame.”

Cartman tsked. “Whatever.” 

Diandra detoured to Kenny. “Do you have any qualms?” 

“Uh, well,” Kenny leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Kind of.” 

“He wants me locked up so I can gestate within the confines of our home,” Cartman supplemented. 

“I do not,” Kenny denied, smacking Cartman’s hand off his thigh. “I want you to be safe and quit sneaking around like you’re John fucking Wick.” 

“I am John Wick. I could kill a man with a pencil.” 

“You can take your pencil and shove it in your ass--”

“Maybe I’ll shove it up yours--” 

Diandra cleared her throat. “Eric, please let Kenny explain himself.” 

“Fine,” Cartman grumbled. “It’s stupid, but okay.” 

Kenny rolled his eyes. “He invested in some property. Most of it’s residential. Except for a couple warehouses outside of town. Sketchy as hell.” 

“What’re they for?” Diandra asked. 

“They’re sitting empty,” Kenny said. “It’s a total waste.” 

Cartman mirrored Kenny’s posture. “It is not a total waste! The whole area’s gonna be fixed up. I’m talking complete gentrification. I snatched some buildings before anybody else did, dirt cheap. Got some guys refurbishing them. I go every couple weeks and check it out.” He leaned back, spread his arms over the top of the loveseat to assert spatial dominance. “A tech company’s gonna buy ‘em off me. It’s financially sound, I promise.” 

“It’s a gamble,” Kenny told him. “You can’t promise anything.” He turned to Diandra. “But that’s not the point. I don’t care if we lose money. What I’m worried about is the people out there. Hobos and shit. I grew up around freaks like that--I used to be a freak like that. They’re crazy!” 

“Nothing bad’s ever happened,” Cartman said. “You weren’t so nervous about it before.” 

“That was before we even thought about having kids,” Kenny said. “All it’ll take is one hopped up schizo. You get shanked--instant abortion.” 

Diandra inserted herself into the conversation before Cartman went haywire. “Those are all valid concerns. Have you considered hiring security, Eric?” 

“You mean pay a couple wannabe cops to sit and watch Netflix on their phones all night?” Cartman revised. “No thanks. Look, it’s not as bad as Kenny makes it out to be. And even if there was security, I’d go anyway. It’s my shit. I gotta keep an eye on it.” 

“I don’t even know why he insisted on investing,” Kenny said. “We’ve got loads of cash with my art. We ain’t lacking anything.” 

“Maybe not monetarily,” Diandra said. “Maybe Eric is lacking something non-material.” 

Kenny looked over his shoulder. “Are you?” 

Cartman avoided Kenny’s eyes. “I guess. It’s like--I mean--I don’t want you being the only one bringing home the bacon.” 

“I don’t care about that.” 

“I do. You’re not my sugar daddy, sugar.” 

Kenny besieged Diandra for a translation. Naturally she wouldn’t make it easy. “Do you remember when we talked about your business practices?” she asked.

“I paint and Cartman sells,” Kenny said. “Easy as pie.”

“No,” Diandra said, “Eric schedules your shows, filters the press, contacts the galleries, oversees the shipping of your work--”

“--and all the invoices,” Cartman jumped in, “and order your supplies, and photograph everything, and update your CV, and run your website, and--”

“Okay!” Kenny wrenched Cartman’s arm across his shoulder. “I get it. You do a lot.” 

Cartman entwined their fingers. “It’s not easy as pie, either. It’s easy as a fifteen-tier wedding cake.” 

“And it is all centered on your creative endeavors, Kenny,” Diandra said. “Eric deserves to have projects of his own.” 

Kenny swiped his thumb across Cartman’s knuckles. “I just wish it wasn’t--what he’s doing now.” 

“And I am sure he wishes you weren’t a famous artist at times,” Diandra said. “It’s all about compromise.” 

“You should put that on a t-shirt,” Cartman scoffed. 

“It’s already on my brochures,” Diandra smirked. She watched them expectantly. This was when they were supposed to hug it out and feed each other pedantic one-liners. 

Kenny shimmied around to face Cartman. “Uh, I guess I wasn’t looking at the bigger picture.” 

“And you were being selfish,” Cartman added, mouth curled in a shit-eating smile. 

“And I was being selfish,” Kenny confirmed. “But you’re being bull-headed. It’s not crazy to be skeptical about my pregnant husband walking around an abandoned building alone at midnight.” 

“You haven’t knocked me up yet,” Cartman said. 

“But that’s the plan. We’ve been planning it for a year, now. You can’t expect nothing’ll change. This is serious.” 

Cartman’s smile fell. “I’m taking it incredibly serious. I’m super cereal, in fact. More cereal about it than you are, considering I’ll be the one hosting a parasite. But you can’t expect me to the rest of my life on hold. I’d go insane if I didn’t have anything to do.” 

“And now compromise,” Diandra instructed. 

“Fine,” Kenny said. “You can still do all your shit, I guess.” 

Cartman poked his ear. “Oh, thanks for the permission.” 

“Be smart about it, though,” Kenny said, wrangling Cartman’s hand again. “Please.. I don’t want a call from the county coroner.”

“I’ll only go in the daytime, how about that?” Cartman provided. “And--and maybe you can ride along.” 

“Really?

“Not today. I’ve got this meeting with the contractors that’ll bore you to tears. But once I need backup, yeah.” 

Diandra clapped her hands. “That was great!” 

Kenny nestled into Cartman’s side, not feeling particularly relieved. The session continued with more levity. Kenny complained about the deluge of work his MoMA exhibition entailed, Cartman hid his concerns about Liane’s wizened, whorish habits underneath a bitchy veil; half an hour later they were climbing into Cartman’s Tesla with another one-fifty bucks down the drain.

“That went well, I think,” Cartman said as he sidled behind the wheel. He reached into the paper McDonald’s sack for cold French fries. “I’m fucking dying for a cigarette, though.” 

“Me too,” Kenny mumbled. “I’ve got a massive headache.” 

“That’s not the nicotine withdrawal just Diandra.” Cartman tossed a fry at Kenny’s head when Kenny didn’t laugh. “What’s wrong?” 

Kenny untangled the fry from his hair. “It’s just been a long day. I wanna go home.” 

Cartman pulled out of the lot. “I’ll getcha home, sweetheart. Then you can take a nice snooze.” 

Kenny grabbed Cartman’s hand lying on the middle console. “It’d be nicer if you were with me.” 

“I have business to take care of, I told you,” Cartman said, devoting more attention to Kenny’s thumbnail than effortlessly zigzagging between city traffic. “Anyway, I need to blow off steam.” 

“Doesn’t your ass hurt?” Kenny asked. 

“Yes, my ass hurts,” Cartman said, “but I can’t bath bomb my worries away like you. I gotta take names and make money.” 

“That’s a real complicated way to relax,” Kenny said. 

Cartman honked at an obstinate van. “Move, you fucking retard! Jesus Christ--” He glanced at Kenny after they resumed piddling down the road, his irate expression smoothed; Diandra hadn’t diagnosed him with bipolar disorder, but sometimes Kenny thought of getting a second opinion. “I’m a complicated person. Don’t fry your brain trying to figure it out. Just sit back and enjoy the sweet luxury of Elon Musk’s engineering.” 

Kenny popped his seat flat and held onto Cartman’s hand for the entire drive home, lullabied into unconsciousness by the political podcast Cartman put on. 

A slap of cold air woke him up. He squinted, groggy and disoriented, at Cartman standing before his open door bedecked in sunlight. “What--” 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Cartman said. He punched the lever to Kenny’s seat, forcing him upward. 

Kenny caught himself on the dashboard. “Fuck, dude. Was I asleep the whole time?” 

“Yeah,” Cartman said. “You looked adorable.” 

Years of dating, marriage, and now couples counseling had not yet accustomed Kenny to Cartman’s unfiltered sweet talk. “No, I probably looked gross. I’ve seen the pictures you and Kyle and Stan take of me when I’m passed out.” 

“I did have to swat a couple flies away from your open maw. It was still cute.” Cartman fisted the collar of Kenny’s flannel and hard-armed him out of the car. “Go inside. Make yourself a bubble bath.” 

Kenny turned at the sound of Cartman’s heavy footsteps behind him. “Why’re you following me?” 

“I gotta change,” Cartman said, boxing Kenny’s back. “Besides, you know Mittens heard the car. She’ll be pissed if I don’t say hi. Hurry up.” 

Kenny unlocked the front door. Cartman shouldered past him into the foyer. Mittens, waiting at the bottom of the staircase, scrabbled across the chestnut floorboards and catapulted into Cartman’s arms. 

“There she is,” Cartman crooned. “You missed your daddy, huh? You’ll always be my baby. Even when we get a real baby. So don’t be getting jealous.” 

Kenny skirted past them into the kitchen. The stainless steel appliances, massive island, and top-of-the-line utensils all sat unused unless Cartman felt inspired. He was a good cook, but lazy, and addicted to pizza; they had to tack on an extra thirty minutes to any timely guarantees given their distance from town. 

Mittens hopped onto the island, which meant Cartman was right behind her. He predictably butted Kenny away from the refrigerator and threw the door wide open. 

Kenny sat down beside Mittens, pulled her into his lap and scratched her rumbling chin. “You’ve been eating more lately,” he observed. 

Cartman closed the fridge with his hip, holding a box of chocolates. “You calling me fat?” 

“You’re fat and I like it.” Kenny hooked his legs around Cartman’s huge ass and yanked him flush with the island. “Think you got a heat soon?” An increase in appetite was one of the more consistent symptoms. 

“I dunno, maybe.” Cartman ripped the paper casing off a caramel turtle. “Or maybe I’m eating for two early. The kid’ll have lots to subsist off of right out the gate.” 

“You’re supposed to eat healthy,” Kenny said. “Not junk.” 

“This is not junk,” Cartman said. His tenor dropped in a crude impression of Samuel L. Jackson. “This is some serious gourmet shit!” 

Kenny stole the candy and popped it into his mouth. “It’s alright.”

“Dick!” Cartman slapped him upside the head. All the sexually-charged violence sent Mittens to the floor. “Fucking stealing my chocolate. I don’t steal your PBR.” 

“You don’t like my PBR.” 

“I don’t like you all that much, either.” 

“Oh, yeah? Then why’d you marry me?” 

“For your money.” 

“I didn’t have money when I proposed.” 

“I could smell it on the horizon. I had to invest quick before somebody else went and consummated you instead.” 

Kenny held another turtle to Cartman’s lips. “Nobody else would’ve been consummating me. All I want’s you.” 

Cartman globbed the chocolate between his teeth, nipping Kenny’s fingertips. He chewed, swallowed, fat as sexy hell. “Is that right?” 

“Yup. If I could go back in time I’d tell fifteen-year-old me to quit being a slut. Save myself for you, like you did for me.” 

“Your tainted cock sure tarnished my virgin butthole. Can’t believe I let you have me in the back of that truck of yours. I’m lucky I didn’t get tetanus.” 

“It was under the stars. It was totally romantic.” 

“Stark’s Pond is not romantic, Kenny,” Cartman snorted. “It smelled like dead fish. That’s probably why I didn’t present until over a decade later. You really set an awful precedent.” 

“I cleaned my act up, though, didn’t I?” Kenny asked.

“Yeah, I guess you did,” Cartman said.

His hands braced Kenny’s lower back. Kenny leaned into him, head canted low, body thrumming for a saccharine kiss—

Except Cartman let go at the last second. Kenny clattered off the island and nearly broke his ankles, no shallow riverbed required. “What the hell?!” 

Cartman pivoted out of the kitchen. “Quit seducing me! I really have to go.” 

Kenny chased him up to their bedroom. “Nuh-uh! Just stay home. Take a bubble bath with me, c’mon.” 

Cartman ducked into their walk-in closet. He came out seconds later quick as a superhero, his sweater and ironed slacks traded for an old hoodie and threadbare jeans paired with crusty boots. “I will when I get back. Watch some TV. Play video games. We’re rich, Kenny. You can entertain yourself for a little while.” 

Kenny pulled him to a halt by his belt loops. “You look sexy dressed down.”

“Stop it,” Cartman pleaded, despite making no move to escape. 

“You’re all rugged and manly looking,” Kenny said. “Kinda makes me wanna fuck.” 

Cartman’s mouth twisted with amusement that was impossible to hide. “That doesn’t mean anything. You’d still wanna fuck if I was covered in dog shit.” 

Kenny shrugged. “I’m not into scat, but I’d poop on you if you wanted.” 

“And you ruined it.” Cartman gave Kenny a moderately drawn-out kiss that still ended way too soon, then patted Kenny’s cheek. “This baby fever’s got you all riled up. Put a bag of frozen peas down your pants.”

Kenny dropped onto their bed with a bratty huff. “If I did that I’d probably turn sterile.” 

“No, you wouldn’t.” Cartman’s impatience gave in to Kenny’s own magnetization. He squatted at the edge of the mattress, raked his hands up Kenny’s thighs. “I’ll be home in two hours, tops. Then you can stimulate my posterior seminal gland all night long.” 

“Stop saying that. Besides...” Kenny licked his lips. “I kinda feel like getting my own posterior seminal gland stimulated.” 

“You don’t have one,” Cartman said. “If you did, you’d be the one getting pregnant. I’m only doing it out of necessity.” 

“I’m dropping hints, here.” 

“Okay, okay. We’ll roleplay that you’re a virgin. I dunno how well it’ll work though, considering your asshole is looser than my mother’s vagina.” 

“That just means you can fist me.”

“Agh--” Cartman climbed to his feet, face flushed. “That’s it. I’m outta here.” 

“Wait!” Kenny accosted the hem of his hoodie. He tripped and fell onto the bed, steamrolled Kenny with his body. Kenny pecked his lips, short and affectionate. “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” Cartman grinned. “And if you love something, let it go.” 

Kenny released him. He got up, scrubbed the blush off his face and waltzed out the door. His voice wafted up the stairs. “Goodbye, dear! I expect dinner’ll be hot on the table upon my return.” 

“Be careful,” Kenny shouted. 

The front door slammed shut. 

Kenny flipped onto his stomach and cushioned his head in his arms, licking Cartman’s chocolaty saliva off his teeth, but the nap in the car had left him wide awake. Unable to sleep away Cartman’s absence, he plodded downstairs to the living room and booted the PS4. Skyrim did nothing to fill the void in his chest. He gave up and tried watching Pulp Fiction, inspired by Cartman’s reference from earlier, but it wasn’t nearly as entertaining without Cartman reciting every line two seconds offbeat. 

Noticing his mood, Mittens curled up in the crook of his shoulder and combed his 5 ‘o clock shadow with her sandpapery tongue. 

“This sucks, Mittens,” he said. “What’s it take to get some dick around here, huh?” She peered at him mid-blep. He frowned. “Sorry. Forgot you’re fixed. That was rude.” 

She was too offended to keep grooming him. He figured he might as well try and get some work done but knew it was a bad idea the moment it crystallized. The whole point of painting was not to think and he was over-thinking everything. Plus the cigarette smell clinging everywhere in the studio made him itching to relapse, which reminded him of detoxing in Cartman’s childhood basement. He abandoned his canvas before he even lifted a paintbrush and ended up sitting at the island chewing a toothpick. He’d gone through fifty bulk boxes ever since he quit three months ago; Cartman had demolished a lifetime supply of spearmint gum in the same manner. 

“Mittens,” he moaned. “Tell me what to do.” 

She pranced around the flat electric stovetop, meowing balefully. 

“Cartman’s the chef,” Kenny reminded her. “All I can manage is hot dogs and mac and cheese.” 

Mittens sat down, resolute in her decision. 

“Fine,” Kenny said. “He did say he wanted dinner, right?” 

Mittens chirped an affirmative. Kenny rounded the island and started retrieving pots and pans. The cabinets sat too tall for Cartman, thus requiring Kenny’s conciliatory presence whenever he cooked. All Kenny could offer was his lanky reach, anyway. Give him a piece of bread and he’d burn it black. Give him a carton of eggs and he’d make the worst omelet known to man. To his credit, his impoverished upbringing had acquainted him well with microwavable and boiled meals. But Cartman deserved better than food pantry supper. If Kenny couldn’t make the food appealing, he could at least make himself look so. 

“This ain’t right,” he told Mittens. “I gotta spruce up. I’ll be right back. Don’t burn the house down.” 

She pawed the stovetop dials. Kenny liked to imagine her as a sultry, stilettoed German lady. Geh zum teufel, du hurensohn. She really was Cartman’s cat; as with Cartman, Kenny gave her the benefit of doubt.

He raced upstairs to an extra room he’d dedicated towards his store of eclectic knickknacks. Cartman called him a hoarder. He wasn’t. He was just a freaky creative with a soft spot for obscure artifacts ranging from preserved dead rats to pinned butterflies to pornographic daguerreotypes. Cartman refused to entertain his obsession, but Wendy liked antiques too. The boring kind--old soda pop bottles, Victorian furniture, boxes of wartime letters. They prowled estate sales together. Their most recent hunt had been profitable for Kenny, if a little out of norm.

He rifled through his personal museum of the abhorrent in search of the latest boon. Underneath a candy tin rattling with anonymous baby teeth and a rosary encased in crushed velvet, he located some dead lady’s dress. It unfurled from his hands into a beam of sunlight, raining dust. 

Dress was too lenient a term. It was actually a raggedy prairie smock hand-stitched by a frugal forties housewife. Red-faded-to-pink save for the cream-colored bib and trim all bordered with lace, it smelled like mothballs and discontinued perfume. Kenny preferred to believe that the original seamtress' spirit was watching over him and definitely not rolling in her grave with the knowledge that her clothes had been appropriated by a 21st century crossdresser. 

The hem grazed his mid-thigh. The bib stretched across his male sternum in awkward folds, looking for non-existent breasts. It made him feel pretty in an ugly way which was the only way he liked to look. He pinned his hair up blind, let half of it fall around his face, unscrewed a ceremonial lipstick bullet and painted his mouth red.

Mittens curled her whiskers at him when he returned to the kitchen. He shooed her off the stovetop. She reconvened on the island and did not move until an hour and a half later. Kenny looked up from setting the table at her noisy dash--which signaled that Cartman was home. 

He swiped his phone off the counter, rapidly scrolled through Spotify, and queued a song through the speaker system Cartman had wired across the entire house. Kenny then jogged to the front door, quirked his elbow against the jamb, put his other hand on his hip, and waited, Mittens caterwauling at his heels.

The door swung open. Cold air spilled inside and climbed up the interior of Kenny’s smock. “Hey, daddy,” he purred. 

Cartman blinked thrice in quick succession. “What’s all this for?” 

Uncertainty squeezed Kenny’s gut. “Um--uh--” He dropped the act. “Oh, forget it. It’s stupid.” 

“I’m just surprised,” Cartman said. Mittens vied for his attention. He ignored her entirely in favor of hugging Kenny’s waist, his body heat mitigating the lingering cold. “I like it, really. You look nice. You look all-American as apple pie.” He froze right as he was about to initiate a kiss. “Is that what I think it is?”

_Throw your hands in the air, if you's a true player--I love it when you call me Big Poppa._

Kenny swallowed. “Um--” 

Cartman laughed. “That’s classic. That’s fucking hilarious.” 

Kenny chanced a hesitant smile. “I thought maybe it’d cheer you up.”

“Consider me cheered,” Cartman said. “You didn’t have to go emasculate yourself for me, though.” 

“It’s no big deal,” Kenny said. “I was a bit of a sissy already.”

Kenny felt the tautness in Cartman’s skeleton as they kissed, smelled the grime and soot on his clothes. “How’d the meeting go?” he whispered. 

Cartman parted with a mournful sigh. “It went alright. Jerked a couple tech guys off, burnt some money on the contractors.” He reached into the back of his jeans and flourished a small handgun. “Didn’t fire this once, you’ll be rest assured.” 

Kenny tugged him forward by one of his hoodie strings to deter another fight. “I made dinner.” 

Cartman tossed his gun and car keys onto the foyer’s table. “For real?” 

“Yeah. It’s some serious gourmet shit, too.” Kenny sat him down at the head of the kitchen table becked with a modest spread of hot dogs, mac and cheese, and potato chips. “I already got yours made.”

Cartman picked up one of his disgusting custom wieners topped with mayo and relish and took a huge bite. “Not fucking bad, sweetheart.” 

Kenny dropped into the seat at his left. “Yeah, well. I fed Karen hot dogs damn never every night when we were kids.”

“Don’t kill the mood with a sob story,” Cartman chastised. He broke a piece of his bun and tossed it in Mittens’ direction. She gobbled it up immediately, forgave him for his neglect. “You were poor. We know.”

“All I mean is don’t expect anything more than this,” Kenny muttered. 

Cartman wiped his hands on his jeans. “Princess. C’mere.” 

Kenny rose from his seat. Cartman pulled him into his lap. His skirt gathered over his hips, exposed his naked cock to Cartman’s fly. “What?” 

“I’m not expecting anything from you. You don’t gotta roll out the red carpet.” 

“I wanted to do something nice.” 

“You already married me. That’s the nicest thing you could do. The rest is just extra. And I appreciate it. But I don’t need a whole circus. We could’ve ordered a pizza; you could’ve been covered in dog shit. You didn’t have to make me food or get all pretty.” 

“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to. You’re about to sire my child, dude, even if you don’t wanna--”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Cartman cut in. “Who the hell said I didn’t want to?” 

“It was implied,” Kenny said. “You’ve been complaining about it nonstop.” 

Cartman’s face softened. “It’s scary is all. It’s a lot to take in.” 

Kenny wound his arms around Cartman’s shoulders. “I know it is, baby.” 

“I don’t not want to,” Cartman said. “But I can’t pretend. I’m not gonna be like Butters or Wendy. I’m not gonna be skipping around and singing songs.” 

Kenny smirked. “I don’t remember either of ‘em doing any of that.” 

“You get my point,” Cartman huffed. “Parts of it’ll be neat, I guess. I already love this kid and he hasn’t even been conceived yet.” 

“I do too,” Kenny grinned.

“So there’s that. It’ll be worth it. But there’s nothing beautiful or whatever about it. The only redeeming thing will be at the very end when it’s finally over. I’m gonna be miserable till then.” 

“I know,” Kenny said. “But when you’re in a bad mood you get all closed off. You can’t do that anymore. I don’t care how miserable or emasculated you get. I’m gonna help however I can. If you gotta go looking for a fight and shoot some people to deal with it, okay, fine. I just wanna be with you when you do.” 

Cartman leaned back, his seat rasping with their combined weight. “Duly noted.” 

Kenny smacked a lipsticked heart in the middle of his forehead. “Everything’ll work out. I’ll take care of you. You’re my big poppa.” 

“Big poppa, huh?” Cartman slipped his hands under Kenny’s smock. “That means you’re my little momma.” 

Electricity frazzled down Kenny’s spine. He rolled his cock against Cartman’s lap. “I like the sound of that.” 

“Well, then.” Cartman laced his fingers underneath Kenny’s ass, sent his chair hurtling to the floor as he stood. Kenny squeaked and locked his legs around Cartman’s waist. “Let’s go take that bubble bath, momma.” 

“You’re nuts,” Kenny laughed. “Put me down!” 

“I won’t be able to carry you anymore here soon. Enjoy it while you can.” Cartman lumbered out of the kitchen, Kenny jostling in his arms. He hiked upstairs into their bedroom, kicked the en suite open, and dropped Kenny hard onto the tile. 

“Ow!” Kenny cried.

“Sorry,” Cartman panted, hands on his knees. “That used to be a lot easier. You’ve gained weight.” 

Kenny pouted, rubbing his tailbone. “’Cause you fattened me up!”

“I think it has more to do with you’re not on thousands of drugs anymore.” Kenny’s heart panged with memories of Cartman holding him shivering and dopesick; Cartman poked him before he got too sad about it. “This was your idea. Get the shit ready.” 

Kenny leaned over the edge of their massive tub and fiddled with its rocket ship control panel. Water spurted hot and steamy, jacuzzi jets bubbling. Cartman’s belt and boots clacked loud behind him. He turned and feasted upon his husband’s naked, pillowy body. “Hey.”

“Hello,” Cartman snickered. He plucked Kenny’s smock off in one fluid motion. “We doing this, or you just gonna stare at me?” 

Kenny bit his lip. “Lots to stare at.” 

Cartman picked him up and gently set him into the tub so as to not ruin his lipstick, then climbed in after. Displaced water sloshed to the floor and dampened their crumpled clothes. The tub was big enough they could both recline parallel to each other; Kenny disregarded all the space and wormed next to Cartman’s side, tendrils of hair floating beneath his chin. 

“This is nice, ain’t it?” he asked. 

Cartman lolled his head, eyes closed. “I might fall asleep.” 

Kenny kissed his shoulder. “Don’t. You’re supposed to fist me, remember?” 

“Oh, right. Yeah.” Cartman cracked one eye open. “I will, momma. Just lemme chill for a minute.” 

“You can chill for hours, if you want.” Kenny knocked the tub’s mottled marble. “It’s heated.” 

Cartman let his shoulders melt beneath the water. “Damn. I didn’t know that.”

“’Cause I’m the only one who takes baths,” Kenny said. He began kneading Cartman’s neck. “You can’t even take a shower longer than five minutes, anymore.” 

“Hot water isn’t a miracle to me,” Cartman said. “I never had to stand in a bucket and hold a garden hose over my head.” His face scrunched at a particularly stubborn knot. “Fuck--”

Kenny silenced him with a kiss. “Shh, poppa.” 

Cartman diffused. “M’kay.”

“I never used a garden hose, by the way,” Kenny informed. “Never had hot water, though, either. So.” 

“You got it now,” Cartman mumbled. 

“I sure do,” Kenny said. “Thanks to you.” 

“All I did was pimp you out.” Cartman shrugged Kenny’s hands off, braced one arm across the edge of the tub, and cupped Kenny’s waist. Steam fizzled upward, loosening his bangs above his half-lidded eyes. “You’re the next Matisse or whatever. Give yourself some credit.” 

Kenny folded his chin over Cartman’s arm. “Where’d you hear that?” 

“New York Times. They did a whole article on your MoMA show. We’ll be back, no doubt. Guggenheim called.” 

Kenny’s frown was eclipsed by his elbow pudge. “When?”

“Last week.” Cartman wiped a humidified smear of lipstick off Kenny’s cheek with his unanchored hand. “They’re dying to get you in.” 

Kenny entwined their fingers. “Walking around that place makes me dizzy.”

“It’s a real feat of contemporary architecture,” Cartman granted. “Anyway, you’re not Matisse at all. De Kooning, maybe. Or Basquiat with all your cryptograms.” 

“I’m not anybody else.”

“Obviously, or else you wouldn’t be so popular. I’m just saying they could’ve picked somebody more apropos to compare you to.” 

“Can we stop talking about work?” Kenny asked. “This is supposed to be relaxing.” 

Cartman nosed his temple. “Sorry, sugar. I just hate reading all these idiots misunderstanding you.” 

“You shouldn’t read any of it. I don’t.” 

“Somebody’s gotta keep their finger on the pulse.”

Kenny nuzzled Cartman’s flabby jaw. “I’m gonna cut the wi-fi. We’ll go Amish.” 

“My servers are impenetrable. Even the feds can’t get at ‘em. I could traffic Indonesian mail-order brides if I wanted.” 

“I’m sure you’ve considered it,” Kenny murmured into the underside of Cartman’s chin. “You could take over the dark web in a day.”

“Undoubtedly,” Cartman affirmed, canting his neck. “But that’s the real sketchy shit. I don’t want any assassins dropping in on our baby’s cradle.” 

“Look at you,” Kenny smirked. “With your legitimate business. Real estate's so boring.” 

Cartman melted further at his ministrations. “Boring’s nice, sometimes,” he sighed. “Nothing funny to worry about. Gotta keep the family in mind.”

“You’re a good poppa.” Kenny let go of Cartman’s hand and grasped his cute little cock. “You’re already a really good dad.” 

Cartman’s hips bucked into Kenny’s fist. “I’m, uh, trying my best.” 

“I know you are.” Water rippled over Kenny’s shoulders as he pumped Cartman to full mast, the sound echoing throughout the chambered bathroom. “Momma’ll take care of you. That’s my job, right? You won’t have to worry about a single thing.” 

“Okay,” Cartman wheezed. 

“I’ll rub your feet every day. Cook a thousand hot dogs. Whatever you want.” 

“What I’d really like is for you to bend over right now.” 

“Yeah?” Kenny asked.

Cartman frowned with mock-annoyance. “Yeah. Big poppa says.” 

Kenny answered with a cheeky grin. “What if momma wants to give poppa a handjob first?” 

“Poppa’s fucking impatient, since momma acted all slutty earlier.”

“Fine--” Kenny climbed out of the tub and plodded a wet trail into their bedroom, the temperature drop spawning goosebumps across his damp skin.

“Grab your phone while you’re out there,” Cartman called through the doorway. “I want some different tunes.” 

Kenny rooted their bedside table for a bottle of lube. “Biggie ain’t doing it for you no more?” 

“Nope.”

“I’m not fucking to Justin Timberlake again.”

“It’s your own fault you can’t realize his sexy genius.”

Kenny shut the bathroom door to keep the steam locked in, then whisked towards the sink counter and lit a few half-melted candles for extra ambiance. 

“Going all out, huh?” Cartman asked, thumbing Kenny’s phone. 

“Guess I’m feeling romantic,” Kenny said.

“Here I always thought your idea of romantic was watching NASCAR while I blow you,” Cartman scoffed. “I’m putting on your nasty hippie hits, by the way.” 

“Aw.” Kenny knelt behind Cartman and squeezed his substantial waist. “How thoughtful.” 

“It really is. You know I hate this crap.” 

Kenny nibbled his earlobe. “As if Justin Timberlake’s any better.”

“Please stop talking smack about my lover,” Cartman requested. He dropped Kenny’s phone and turned around whilst Biggest Part of Me by Ambrosia oozed out of the ceiling: _There's a new sun arisin' in your eyes; I can see a new horizon--_

“Your lover, huh?” Kenny asked. “You been unfaithful?” 

“Totally,” Cartman said. “He’s my free pass. We’ve been over this. You can have one too, if you want.” 

“Hmmm. That’s tough. I got twice as many options as you do.” 

“Give it some thought. You only get one.” 

“The only person I wanna think about’s right here.”

Cartman played oblivious. “Oh, yeah? What’s he like?” 

“He can be a real asshole,” Kenny said. “But he’s a real softie, too.”

“Sounds like he might not be worth the trouble.”

“Naw, he’s worth the world.” 

“Kenny...,” Cartman warned. He pressed his spine against the tub to evade the sentimentality. “Don’t say dumb crap--”

“It ain’t crap,” Kenny said, not giving Cartman an inch; he closed the space between them till they were chest-to-chest, and launched into an off-key rendition of the song’s chorus: “Make a wish, baby, and I will make it come true--make a list baby, of the things I'll do for you--”

“Stop,” Cartman begged. “Kenny, stop, I can’t take it!”

Kenny moved his painted lips beside Cartman’s ear, merciless. “Ain't no risk in lettin' my love rain down on you--”

“Oh, Christ!” Cartman grabbed Kenny’s hips and twirled him around. “Get up, up, up. Y’wanna serenade me or take my fist?” 

“Both,” Kenny said, catching his elbows on the edge of the tub. 

“Then I guess I’ll have to fuck you speechless,” Cartman reckoned. 

He ladled a palmful of lube as Kenny lifted his ass out of the water, forehead on his arms. Cartman fucked him speechless as promised, his fist the biggest part of Kenny besides Kenny’s blossoming heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Notorious B.I.G. - Big Poppa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=phaJXp_zMYM)
> 
> [Ambrosia - Biggest Part of Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOm0Dq_kKNU)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> given that kenny and cartman are kenny and cartman, they'll be flip-flopping emotionally all throughout this fic. it's a tough balancing act. hopefully i've achieved it. 
> 
> this chapter was a lot of fun to write. it's always a good time when the main four are together again. i had fun trying to adapt their usual interactions to a middle-aged context. 
> 
> next chapter is an emotional follow-up to round out the exposition, and then we'll be getting to the good stuff.

Cartman slipped down from the truck, the same question he asked every few weeks illustrated by foggy puffs of air: “Remind me why we’re here again?”

Kenny stowed his keys into his pocket, then rounded the hood and took Cartman’s warm hand in his own cold palm. “Because they’re our friends and we love them.”

“Love’s a pretty strong word,” Cartman cautioned. “So’s friends. I’d go with tolerate and acquaintances, myself. But they aren’t even the worst part. It’s this fucking place.” 

“It’s not that bad.” 

“The demographic’s terrible. Bunch of snooty dudes who think they’re cultured ‘cause they drink craft beer? Pfft--give me a break!”

Unwilling to voice agreement, Kenny bullied Cartman across Micro Brew’s parking lot. He fumbled to an awkward stop, freshly laid salt crackling underfoot, when Cartman halted beside a cigarette spittoon. “What is it?” 

Cartman frowned. “I’m thinking I shouldn’t partake.” 

“What for?” 

“Same reason we quit smoking.” 

Kenny blinked. “Oh. Good idea. That’s very, um, foresightful of you.”   
  
“The guys’ll notice, is the thing.” Cartman’s anxiety broke with a haughty smirk. “And foresightful isn’t a word.”

Kenny rolled his eyes. “We’ll tell ‘em you’re driving. You got meeting in the morning.” 

“That’d work if I wasn’t a stupendous drunk driver. Stan probably won’t say anything, but you know how Kyle is.”

“Just play it by ear.” 

“I hate playing it by ear.” 

Kenny stepped forward and kissed Cartman’s forehead. The wrinkles under his bangs smoothed. “Sometimes that’s all you can do.” 

“Alright,” Cartman sighed. He wiggled Kenny’s fly-away hairs off his nose. “Let’s get this over with.”

Micro Brew had established itself as the anti-thesis of Skeeter’s, being the only other bar in town. Tasteful woodcut decorations lined the walls in place of bawdy bikini posters; a modest amount of flatscreens broadcasted tennis and CNN opposed to barbaric football and Fox News; and the kitchen served bruschetta and panninis instead of chicken wings and nachos. Stan and Kyle fit right in. Cartman and Kenny fit right out, and were thus spotted immediately. 

“Guys,” Stan cried, the table he and Kyle had commandeered already laden with empty glasses. “You made it!” 

“Jesus Christ,” Cartman muttered. 

Kenny strode ahead and accepted Stan’s bear hug. “Hey, dude.” 

Stan retracted an arm’s length. “We’ve been waiting forever!” 

“We’ve only been waiting half an hour, Stan,” Kyle spoke.

“And you’re already piss-drunk,” Cartman noted. He grabbed two chairs and sat in the outermost one, legs cocked toward the door in case of a fire or conversational emergency. 

“Am not,” Kyle said, his claim cheapened by a long swill of the weekly special. 

Stan resumed position at Kyle’s right. “Lemme spot you guys!” 

Kenny brushed Cartman’s shoulder as he sat down next to him. “That’s alright, bud--”

“No, really, come on,” Stan begged. “It’s been so long since we all got together.”

“It’s been three weeks,” Cartman said. 

“Feels like a lifetime,” Stan grinned, neither his mega-watt smile nor generous charity dimming. 

Kenny grasped Cartman’s thigh under the table, only somewhat resigned at being the one to kill Stan’s vibe. “Cartman’s not drinking tonight. He’s got a meeting in the morning.” 

Kyle straightened. “What kind of meeting?” 

“Business,” Cartman said.

“Real estate stuff,” Kenny bolstered. 

“Lame,” Stan said. “It can’t be that early.”

“Ass crack of dawn,” Cartman said. “Early bird gets the worm and all. You plebeians wouldn’t understand.” 

“I’d rather not have the night devolve into class warfare,” Kyle said. His authoritative tone quelled Stan’s lamentations, but not his own curiosity. “Is there a problem?”

“The shills I’m seeing are just paranoid fuckers.” Cartman turned to Kenny. “Whatcha want?” 

“Shot of bleach,” Kenny smirked. 

Cartman escaped towards the bar. Kenny watched him go, then looked back at his friends and found them staring at him inquisitively. 

“Cartman’s just peachy tonight, huh?” Kyle asked. 

“Uh...” 

“You guys aren’t fighting again, are you?” Stan questioned next.

“No, dude--”

“Something’s up,” Kyle said. 

“Nothing’s up,” Kenny promised. “Everything’s down. We’re all--we’re all good.” 

The mustache Stan had declined to shave since last November ruffled with a yeasty burp. “I dunno, bro.” 

Kyle plonked his elbows between the empty glasses, chin in his hands. “You’d tell us if something was up, though, right?” 

“Yes,” Kenny hissed, eager to change the subject. “What’s up with you two? How’re the kids?” 

Ace in the hole. Stan and Kyle shifted gears into proud dad mode. Kyle was recounting his son’s first steps for the hundredth time when Cartman returned.

Kyle nodded at his Coke sans Jack. “They were out of Juicy Juice, I take it?” 

“Fuck off,” Cartman said. He passed Kenny a Miller Lite; Micro Brew was so bougie they didn’t allow PBR on the premises. “We shoulda gone to Stan’s place if I’m gonna be antagonized the whole night.” 

“What’s that mean?” Stan asked. 

“Means your wife’s a bitch,” Cartman snapped, his pissy attitude exceeding alibi purposes. 

“There’s a reason Wendy doesn’t like you, you know.” 

“I couldn’t care less what she thinks of me. Her opinion ranks lower than fucking Butters’.”

“And now we’re insulting each other’s spouses,” Kyle groused. 

“Kenny’s our best friend,” Stan said, “so we can’t even get you back!” 

“Oh, I’ll save you the trouble.” Cartman twisted in his seat. “You’re a hick piece of trash,” he told Kenny. “Always have been, always will be.” 

“The fuck did I do?” Kenny demanded. 

“Absolutely nothing.” 

Kenny cracked his Miller Lite open. “Get a new fuckin’ bone, ‘cause you’ve picked that one dry.” 

“Maybe you should drink,” Stan advised Cartman. “It’d take the stick out of your ass.” 

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Cartman shot back, his ire clipping all of them like a shrapnel bullet. “ You look enough like your father with that hideous mustache. You don’t gotta become an alcoholic too.” 

Kenny thunked his beer onto the table. “What’s with this mood all of a sudden? I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” 

“You don’t take me anywhere,” Cartman said. “I go wherever the hell I damn well please--and it sure as shit ain’t here!” 

“Get lost, then. Nobody’s asking you to stick around. I’ll stay with Kyle ‘n Stan.” 

“Be my guest! I bet you’re dying to play house with the little gremlins--”

“Don’t bring our children into this,” Kyle said. “I swear to God, Cartman--”

“Wait,” Stan interjected, the soft edge to his voice slicing through the ruckus. “What do you mean, playing house?” 

Kenny’s rage vanished in one fell swoop. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” 

Cartman’s ringtone guilelessly chirped. His nostrils flared at the caller ID. “Oh, great!” 

“Whoa, hey--” Kenny scrambled after him as he ejected out of his seat. “What is it? What’s wrong?” 

“Don’t,” Cartman barked over his shoulder. 

Kenny watched him plow through a side exit. A hand grasped his elbow; he spun around and smacked into Stan.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Stan said. “Chill, man, it’s alright.” 

Kenny dropped into Cartman’s vacant chair, chest heaving with anger and nerves. Stan sat beside him and threw an arm over his shoulder. “So something is up?” 

“And it’s not the bullshit excuse you pulled earlier,” Kyle guessed. 

“Nope,” Kenny said. “God, I wanna cigarette.”

“No you don’t,” Stan said. “You guys’ve been really good about that, man, you can’t give in now.” 

“I bet Cartman’s chainsmoking as we speak,” Kyle said. 

“Nuh-huh,” Stan said.

“No,” Kenny sighed, “he probably is.” 

“Well, why?” Stan asked. “What’s got you all worked up?” 

“I can’t tell you.” 

A wounded look passed Stan’s face. Kyle’s, too, though he schooled it quicker. “Kenny, the four of us have been friends for thirty years.” 

“That’s why this sucks so bad. I wish I could say, I swear, it’s just--it’s up to Cartman.” 

Stan gripped the back of his neck. “He’s not sick or something, is he?” 

Kenny startled at the idea. “No! No, Christ.” 

Kyle thumbed the rim of his glass. “He doesn’t have the Mafia on his case, does he?” 

“Quit guessing,” Kenny pleaded. 

Stan wouldn’t be swayed. “Playing house,” he repeated. “Why’d he say that?” 

Kenny polished off his Miller Lite and disengaged from Stan’s brotherly caress. “I dunno. I’m gonna go check on him.” 

He shouldered through the same door Cartman had into a side-alley lanced with evening dusk. Kenny crossed his unbuttoned denim jacket against the cold, followed Cartman’s smoke signal, and lingered out of sight behind a slimy dumpster.

“Sure,” Cartman was saying. “Yeah, uh--yeah, okay--um, I’ll have to check. Can I call you back, like, tomorrow? Okay. Okay. Alright. Thanks, bye.” 

Kenny leadened his next step, crunchy gravel heralding his approach. “Can I bum one?” 

Cartman swallowed a drag off a cigarette, his back turned. “Sure.”

“Can you look at me? Can you talk to me?” 

“I’m talking. I’m speaking right now.” 

Kenny palmed his hip. Cartman swiveled at the touch and brandished a pack of Camels. 

Half the carton was empty. “You been smoking the entire past three months?” 

“Just the last couple weeks. Ever since--”

“Okay. This’ll be our last ones, then.” 

“Okay.”

Kenny tucked the pack inside of his jacket, not trusting Cartman wouldn’t go back on his word. “Got a light?” 

Cartman’s gold Zippo sparked. “Here.” 

Kenny bent down into the flame and took his first lungful of tobacco in ninety days. “Oh, Christ. Sweet mother Mary of God--” 

“Tell me about it,” Cartman said. 

“Why don’tcha tell me about the doctor?” Kenny sidestepped around Cartman and held him from behind, so he didn’t have to speak face-to-face. “That’s who was on the phone, right? C’mon, what they’d say?” 

“We’re in,” Cartman said. 

He made the announcement as if reporting the weather, yet a nuclear bomb might as well have imploded. “What’s that mean?” Kenny asked. “We can just go for it?” 

“No, you fucking imbecile.” Cartman rebuffed his embrace, pivoting to face him. “I gotta get on that hormone stuff and lose weight all this other crap--”

“But then what?” 

“Then I guess you fuck a baby into me.” 

“Don’t say it like that!”

“How the hell else am I supposed to say it?” 

“Not like I’m just slinging a load in ya all willy-nilly—” 

“That’s pretty much how it is. It might not even take the first time. It might not take for awhile, if ever. Don’t get your hopes up. ”

“Eric,” Kenny said. “I’m sorry, but my hopes are sky fucking high, man.” 

“That’s your problem,” Cartman said. He puffed his cigarette down to the filter and put it out with his shoe. “Gimme another.” 

Kenny inhaled his own to needle him. “I told you, that’s your last one.” 

“I need it.” 

“Fine--” 

Kenny grabbed Cartman’s coat collar, glued their lips together, and fired a shotgun. Cartman let the smoke dribble out of his nose, his mouth otherwise occupied with devouring Kenny’s tongue. Kenny tossed his cigarette away and clutched the only vice he wanted. 

“’M gonna fuck a baby in you,” he gasped. 

Cartman shoved him into the greasy bricks at his back. “Hell yeah, momma. You gonna fuck your poppa good, huh?” 

“Eric--”

“I gotcha--”

Kenny’s unbidden tears collided with Cartman’s. “Hold on--stop, stop--baby, please--”

Cartman parted with a muted pop and viscous scowl. “What? Why’re we stopping? You got someplace else you’d rather be?” 

“Stan and Kyle’re waiting. They think we’re duking it out, probably.” 

“Fuck ‘em! They can eat my shit--”

“I meant,” Kenny said, flattening his hands on Cartman’s shuddering chest, “that we oughta go inside before they come out and see what’s taking so long.” 

“Oh,” Cartman panted. The glint in his eyes simmered. “Oh, uh, yeah, okay.” 

Kenny sorted his mussed bangs. “Think you can pull yourself together?”

“Sure, if we smoke one more.” 

“Ugh, okay. But only ‘cause I love you.” 

“I love you too,” Cartman said. He peppered Kenny’s jaw with a thousand kisses. “I love you so goddamn much, Kenneth William Cartman. I love you so bad it drives me crazy. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, I swear to God. My whole entire life, it’s been you--” 

“Eric,” Kenny murmured, his tears taking on a different character. “Eric, baby, I know, I know.” 

Cartman looked up, his glistening lips irritated by Kenny’s scruff. “You’re crying, princess.” 

“So are you.”

“Am I really? Well--shit!” 

Kenny laughed. Cartman started laughing too. They shared another cigarette, dusted off, and went inside; Stan and Kyle sported identical perturbed expressions upon their joyful return. 

“Looks like you talked it out,” Stan said. 

“I’d say it wasn’t just talking,” Kyle ventured. 

Kenny was unable to withhold a knowing smile in Cartman’s direction, though it quickly disappeared. “Eric?”

Pale and jittery, Cartman grappled for Kenny’s fingers and thumped their entwined hands onto the tabletop. The empty glasses jolted, as did Stan and Kyle. “Look--” 

Kenny cut him off. “Eric, you aren’t--are you--”

“We’re gonna try and have a kid,” Cartman blurted. “There, I fucking said it!” 

Stan and Kyle froze. Cartman absolutely vibrated, Kenny’s death grip the only thing keeping him from total dissolution.

“Holy goddamn motherfucking shit,” Kyle finally said. 

“Oh my God,” Stan said. His mouth spread in an enormous smile. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” 

“Stan,” Kenny said. “Stan, don’t go crazy, now--” 

Stan vaulted to his feet and tackled Cartman in a hug so strong that he fell backwards into Kenny’s side. “I knew it! I knew it, you fucking bastard! I knew it, I knew it, I told Kyle I knew it and he didn’t believe me, but I knew it--” 

Cartman reeled. “Jesus, Marsh! You’re a genius, you’re a savant, you’re a prodigy! Now if you could just lemme breathe--”

“Stan,” Kyle chided. “That’s enough, man.” 

“Sorry, sorry!” Stan stepped back, flustered and boyish and more than a little drunk. “That’s just great, that’s really so awesome, wow!”

Cartman stared at Kyle after contemptuously straightening his collar. “What do you think, Jew?” 

Kyle metered a subdued grin. “I think you’ve got your work cut out for you, fatass.” 

Cartman mirrored him. “Can’t argue that.” 

Stan slapped the table. “Okay, truce, we’re all friends again. Now can I please buy you a fucking drink?” 

“Err,” Cartman said. 

“Oh, save it,” Kyle scoffed. “If you can smoke, you can drink.” 

“He’s got a point, baby,” Kenny said. 

“Alright,” Cartman relented. “Okay, fine, alright.” 

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Stan whooped. 

With their hyperactive friend at the bar, Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny settled in for a more tempered conversation. 

“So you’re really doing this,” Kyle said. 

“Yes,” Cartman said. 

“And you’re ready for it?”

Kenny shrugged. “Ready as we can be.”

“We’ve been thinking about it for a year,” Cartman revealed. He twirled his abandoned Coke between his palms, gaze trained downward. “We just went and got some tests done, so.” 

“Oh,” Kyle said, realizing their dedication. “How’d that go?” 

“They just called. Gave us the green light.”

“More like yellow light,” Kenny said. 

“Yeah,” Cartman huffed. He pushed the soda away. “Have to do all these fuckin’ hormone treatments.” 

“So did Wendy, if I remember,” Kyle said. “You should ask her about it.” 

“Wendy’s advice is the last thing I’m looking for.” 

“Well, she’s also the only other alpha you know who’s carried a child.”

“But I’m not an alpha. I’m a goddamn hermaphrodite.” 

“The concept’s the same. Butters’ll help too. I mean, we all will.” Kyle smiled at Kenny. “Both of you.” 

“This stays between us,” Cartman said. “At least for now. I don’t want it getting out in case nothing happens.” 

“Babe,” Kenny frowned. 

“I mean it,” Cartman said. “So don’t go yapping to your sister, either.” 

“I’ll make sure Stan doesn’t tell Wendy,” Kyle ensured. “Your secret’s safe with us, Eric. You know that.” 

“It better be,” Cartman said. “I want it locked up tight as your ancestors locked themselves in their cellars.” 

Kyle raised his right hand. “As Moses as my witness.”

“Stan in three, two, one,” Kenny cautioned. 

Stan arrived right on cue with an armload of random drinks. “Bottoms up, boys!” 

Cartman peered at a bright pink concoction. “The fuck’s all this?” 

“I just got tons of stuff. It’s a sampler platter!” 

“Whatever happened to plain old beer, huh? Why’s it old-fashioned to want uncut liquor? ” 

“Because it is.” Stan grasped his own rainbow brew and clinked Cartman’s. “To fatherhood!”

“Rancid,” Cartman belched. He foisted a surprise potion onto Kenny. “Your turn, momma.” 

“Momma?” Stan asked. 

Kenny blamed his blush on the alcohol. “Forget it,” he said, stacking his empty glass atop Cartman’s. “It’s an inside joke.” 

Cartman jabbed his leg. “He’s my little momma. Aren’tcha? C’mon, Kenny. Say it!” 

“I’m not saying it,” Kenny said. 

“I don’t wanna hear you say it,” Kyle said.

“Kenny’s my little momma,” Cartman crooned. “I’m his big poppa.” 

Stan shuddered. “Stop, dude. Just stop.” 

“We’re all grown ups, aren’t we?” Cartman asked. “Or am I the only man at the table? Actually, don’t answer that. I know I am.” 

“Nuh-uh,” Stan said, stroking his mustache for effect. 

“Please,” Cartman said. “You could grow a goddamn Viking beard and it wouldn’t make you less of a pussy. And you!” He rounded on Kyle. “You’re still the most high-maintenance bitch I’ve ever come across!”

Kyle pointed at Kenny. “What about him, huh?”

Cartman grabbed the back of Kenny’s chair. “Oh, this guy? This guy right here?” 

Kenny cocked his head, smiling. “Yeah, that dude you married.” 

“I married a transvestite,” Cartman said. “I married a whore who used to hit the streets in drag and let johns fuck him in the ass for cheese money. I married an airhead who’s only profitable skill is painting pictures a two-year-old could make. I don’t remember marrying a dude.” 

“Wonder what that says about you.” 

“Says I got bad taste. Probably shouldn’t let him mother my child.” 

“Probably not.”

“But I am. God forgive me.” 

“You guys are so fucking weird,” Stan said. 

“Hey!” Cartman turned back around and slammed his elbow on the table. “For that, I challenge you to an arm wrestle, Marsh!” 

“In the name of Princess Kenny’s honor?” 

“Yes! C’mon, you vegetarian beta male!” 

“You’re on, hermaphrodite!”

Kyle and Kenny scraped all the colorful liquor down the table to make room; they’d ingested most of it by the time Stan conceded his fifth loss in a row.

“As the Elvin King, I pronounce Grand Wizard Cartman the victor,” Kyle declared with theatrical gravitas. “You lost your edge, Knight Stan.” 

“Screw off,” Stan mumbled. 

Back pressed against the wall, Kenny hooked Cartman’s chair with his foot. “You’re my hero.” 

Cartman distracted him with an open-mouthed kiss and stole the glass out of his hand. “Damn straight, sweetheart.” Kenny nipped his bottom lip in retaliation. 

“Next round’s on me,” Kyle offered. He got himself and Stan IPAs, Kenny a Miller Lite, and Cartman an entire pint of Jack. “Something a little old-fashioned, eh?” 

“Fucking sweet,” Cartman drawled. “I fucking love you guys.” 

Stan about jizzed at the masculine camaraderie. “We love you too, Eric!” 

Kyle balanced the rim of his IPA on his lip. “Never thought I’d see you care about somebody more than yourself, let alone bring a kid into the world.” 

“Well, uh--me neither, to be honest,” Cartman admitted, cradling the Jack bottle to his chest.

Kenny imagined a baby in its stead and blinked the inebriated emotion out of his eyes. He took the whiskey and poured three fingers into one of the many spare glasses, then topped it off with the forgotten Coke. “Here, baby.” 

“Thanks, momma,” Cartman said. 

Stan stood up and flicked his beer can, the metallic ring not effective as silverware on a champagne flute but sufficient enough. “I believe a toast is in order!” 

Everybody manned their respective drinks. “This outghta be good,” Cartman jeered. 

“Hope it’s not as bad as the speech he gave at your wedding,” Kyle said.

“Let’s hear it, Stan,” Kenny said.

“Cartman,” Stan began. “And Kenny.” 

Cartman lifted his glass. “That’s us.” 

Stan clumsily waltzed behind their chairs. “You two’ve always been, uh, you two.” Booze made him particularly poetic. “Ever since we were kids. Cartman’s got some fucked up plan. Kenny goes with it, no questions asked. Always! Am I right, Kyle?” 

“You’re right,” Kyle said.

“And sure, Cartman’s a bastard, and Kenny’s a drug addict--”

“Was,” Kenny protested. “I’m reformed. I dunno about Cartman.” 

“I’m reformed,” Cartman said. “You reformed me, princess. I’m completely reformed.” 

Stan ducked, forcing them to break apart. “Anyway. You guys’ve come a long way together, y’know? And now, at your prime--”

“If this is my prime, I don’t wanna know what else comes after,” Cartman said. 

“--at the prime of your lives,” Stan continued, “bound in holy matrimony, in addiction and in health, in poverty and in wealth, in divorce and in therapy, you’ve got the most fucked up scheme you’ll ever make. Raising a fucking kid, holy shit. Lemme tell you, guys, c’mere, hey.” 

“We’re right here,” Kenny chuckled. 

“You’re yelling in our ears,” Cartman reminded. 

Stan enveloped them in his arms, his breath reeking of hops and fruity vodka. “Lemme tell you. Lemme tell you that it’ll be the greatest moment of your lives, except for the rest. The rest’s nothing but the best. It’s all up from here, guys--and you deserve it, really, you do--oh, man--”

Cartman groaned. “Marsh, you piece of shit--” He scooted back and arm wrestled Stan into a hug. “Calm down before you hurt yourself.” 

Stan blubbered all over the front of Cartman’s designer quarter-zip sweater. “It’s just so cool. We’re all friends. And now are kids are gonna be friends. And life’s just good.” 

“Life is good,” Cartman affirmed. “Life’s good, Stanny-boy, yes indeed.” 

Kenny rubbed Stan’s back. “That was beautiful. That was damn literature, man.”

“I liked the part where you redid our wedding vows,” Cartman said. “You shoulda come up with that back when he tied the knot. It’s a way better script.” 

“More accurate too,” Kyle said. He got up and tugged Stan’s arm. “C’mon, dude. Let ‘em go.” 

He corralled Stan to their side of the table. “Ugh, sorry,” Stan said, his mustache shiny with snot. “I’m sorry, guys.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cartman dismissed. “You’ve had an emotional conniption every week for the past thirty years. I’m used to it.” 

“You gotta cool it, though,” Kyle said. He winked at Cartman. “You won’t be able to freak out on Eric like that when he’s pregnant.” 

“Oh, shit,” Stan said. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Cartman’s eyes widened; Kenny impeded his impending conniption by kissing his cheek.

The night progressed amicably. Cartman forced them into a game of pool which he predictably won, then staked claim on a gambling machine where he turned twenty bucks into one-fifty. Stan and Kyle besieged him for tips. Pure luck and endurance, he said as he printed his ticket, though he’d always been oddly lucky.

Kenny tried pacing himself when it became apparent that Cartman was in no state to drive, but they kept showering him with Miller Lite whenever he tapped out, and every time he snuck outside to take a piss Cartman followed, horny and drunk. Eventually he went as far as getting on his knees to suck Kenny’s cock, whereupon Kenny decided it was time to go home. 

“We’re heading off,” he announced to Stan and Kyle, who’d occupied themselves playing darts. 

Stan chucked a dart which landed way off-center. “Boo!”

Kyle yanked it out of the wall. “They just had last call.”

“Seriously?” Stan squinted at his watch. “What time is it? I can’t--I can’t read anymore.” 

“Time to go have sex,” Cartman said, draped across Kenny’s side. “C’mon, Ken, let’s goooo.” 

“You’re not driving,” Kenny said.

“I’m a great driver!” Cartman wormed his fingers into Kenny’s back pocket in search of the keys Kenny had hidden in his jacket. “I could drive NASCAR. Y’want me to be a NASCAR driver, Kenny?” 

“I want you to drink some water and go to bed.”

Cartman forgot what he was looking for, distracted by Kenny’s ass. “I’ll take you to Talladega, rent out the whole track, how ‘bout?” 

“Sure, Eric. I’m driving tonight, though.” 

“Nope,” Kyle said. “You’re drunk as hell, too.” 

“So’re you,” Stan told him. “We all are!” 

“Call your wife,” Cartman ordered. “Wendy’ll pick us up.” 

“She can’t leave our baby at home!” 

“Call Kyle’s wife, then.”

“I got a baby too,” Kyle said. “Y’gotta start thinking about stuff like that.” 

“Aw, shit.” Cartman looked up at Kenny. “They all got kids, Ken. We oughta have a kid.” 

“We are,” Kenny said. “Remember?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Cartman laughed. “Didja hear that, you guys? We’re having a kid! You’re uncles, both of ya!” 

“What about Kenny’s brother?” Stan asked. 

“Kevin? He’s incarcerated!”

“What about your brother?”

“You mean half-brother. He’s goddamn ginger. Oh, Jesus, my kid’s gonna have one-quarter ginger. Hope it don’t make him retarded.” 

“Dude--Kyle’s right here!”

“Aw, his Jew DNA overrides everything else!” 

Kenny left his husband in his best friends’ care and called a cab out front. His jacket got torn off his shoulders as he ended the call; he spun around to find Cartman rifling through its inner pockets. 

“Ah-hah!” Cartman cheered, locating the pack of Camels. 

“Dude, no,” Kenny said. “C’mon, we can’t--we can’t relapse--”

“You say relapse, I say anal prolapse. Tomato, to-mah-to. It’s fine. We’re celebrating!” Cartman flicked his gold Zippo under Kenny’s nose. “We’re celebrating, Kenny!” 

Kenny smacked him away. “Don’t burn my eyebrows off, you crazy!” 

“You’re crazy!” Cartman thrust a cigarette between Kenny’s teeth. “You’re a goddamn lunatic!” 

Kenny wrangled Cartman’s lighter. “Gimme that!” He lit the cigarette and passed it off. “Here, take this.” 

“You have one too!”

“Nope. I’ve got self control. I am stronger than my strongest impulses.” 

“Where’d ya hear that, rehab?”

“Yeah.”

“Which stint?” 

“The fourth.”

“And you still went a fifth time, so.” Cartman blew smoke at Kenny’s face. “Live a little, sweetheart.” 

“Fifth time was the last time. You just want somebody else to fall off the wagon, too.” 

“I never got on the wagon.” 

“Eric, I’m not gonna do it. That’s it. No argument.” 

“I’m not arguing,” Cartman taunted. “I’m making a suggestion.” 

Kenny smacked his beefy shoulders. “Gimme my jacket. It’s cold.” 

“You’re cold, huh?” Cartman crushed Kenny’s waist with his big arms. “Poppa’ll warm ya up.” 

“Watch it--your cig’s burning my hair.” Kenny plucked the cigarette out of Cartman’s mouth and indulged in a long drag, then threw it away. “There. We’re done. No more.” 

Cartman turned his face up into Kenny’s neck. They were at the perfect height differential. “No more, got it.” 

“You’re gonna eat better too,” Kenny said, attempting a cross-eyed glare. “You’re gonna have to do whatever the doctors tell you from here on out, understand?” 

“Sure,” Cartman said.

Kenny flicked his ear. “Say yes, momma.” 

“Yes, momma,” Cartman intoned. 

Kenny kissed the crown of his head. “Alright, poppa. I’ll hold you to that.” 

Cartman’s hips bucked. “Hold me to this!” 

“Shit!” Kenny swung his lower half out of boner range. “Eric, we ain’t gonna fuck in the taxi!” 

“It’ll be fine. We’ll pay the driver off with the money I won.”

“’Member you told me about baby fever? Who’s riled up now?” 

“You. You’ve been giving me the eye all night.” 

“Those were heart eyes. Those were eyes of love and affection.” 

“And sex.”

“No, man. Look at my pants. Am I hard right now?” 

Cartman fingered Kenny’s fly. “You will be when I’m done with you.” 

“Stop! The guys’ll see--”

Kyle and Stan poured out of the bar as if summoned. “See what?” Kyle asked. “What’re we seeing right now?” 

“Me, claiming my territory,” Cartman answered, squeezing Kenny’s ass.

“I called a cab,” Kenny helplessly informed. 

Stan’s nose wrinkled. “Were you smoking again?” 

“So what if we were, butthole?” Cartman asked. “Gonna call my mom?”

A loud honk redirected their attention. Kyle took charge towards the curb. “Let’s go, guys.” 

They fell in step behind him. Kyle sat in the passenger seat, while Stan was forced to watch Cartman fondle Kenny in the back. 

“Where to?” the driver asked, resolutely staring ahead. 

Kyle looked over his shoulder. “Cartman, Kenny--hey, hey.” 

Cartman unsunctioned his lips from Kenny’s neck. “What?” 

“Y’wanna stay in town? So you can pick up the truck in the morning?” 

“Oh, uh, sure.” 

“I’ll take ‘em,” Stan offered. “We got that pull-out couch. Plus Emily’s older than Jacob. She’s less likely to wake up with ‘em all--you know.” 

“We ain’t all anything,” Kenny promised. “We’ll just hit the hay. We’ll be nice and quiet.” 

“Gotta go, folks,” the driver said. 

Kyle got dropped off at his apartment complex first. Between a surprise pregnancy, rushed wedding, and caring for a newborn, he and Butters didn’t have the time to secure long-term living quarters and were currently saving up for a house. Kenny offered to pitch in on a down payment, to which Kyle screeched that he’d provide for his own family, thanks. Kenny merely considered it payback for all the food and clothes Kyle bought him when they were kids. Cartman told him Kyle was just being an alpha. Regardless, it was still depressing seeing his friend’s dumpy digs. Kyle thought so too, or so it seemed by the way he hurriedly bid his goodbyes and dashed inside. 

Stan switched to the front seat and engaged the driver in a mostly one-sided conversation. Cartman took advantage of the extra room, sprawled out with his head cushioned on Kenny’s shoulder.

“Sucks,” Kenny said.

“What’s that?” Cartman asked.

“Kyle’s place.”

“It’s not your problem.” 

“I know, but still.” Kenny tracked the receding complex through the rearview mirror. “He’s our friend.” 

Cartman wrenched his eyes down with a slobbery kiss to his Adam’s apple. "“You didn’t want handouts when you were broke. Same with him.” 

“I guess.”

Kenny rested his temple atop Cartman’s head for the remainder of the ride. Both half-asleep, they had to carry each other towards Stan’s modest split-level. 

The front light clicked on. Wendy edged outside wearing a bath robe and house slippers, arms crossed, mouth pursed, black hair wound in a loose knot. “Hello, boys.”

Stan halted halfway up the steps. “Wendy, honey--”

“A heads up would’ve been appreciated, Stanley.” 

“I thought I called. I could’ve sworn I called.” 

“You did not.”

“Forgot. Sorry.” 

Wendy appraised Kenny and Cartman’s equally drunken stupors. “What kept you so long?” 

“Guys’ night ran a little late.”

“Yes, I’m aware. Why?” 

“Lost track of time. Had a few shots, played some pool. That’s it.” 

Cartman wavered on his feet, clutching Kenny’s sleeve. “Can we come inside now, your majesty? It’s cold as fuck!” 

“If you keep your voices down,” Wendy snapped. “My daughter is asleep.”

“Okay,” Cartman whispered. “Okay, Wendy. Shh, okay.” 

She made an affronted sound of disgust and pivoted indoors. 

Kenny always liked visiting Stan’s house. His own home felt too cavernous and wasteful, furniture and floorspace magnified for the sake of stature. But at Stan’s everything was warm and cozy. Each room carried the scent of paperback books and milky baby, crowded with utilitarian clutter. Kenny wondered if his house would smell like that once his kid was born, or if the remodeled estate was too large to retain traces of family life. 

Wendy shooed Stan to bed, then returned to the living room and unfolded the hideaway from the couch. “You know where everything is.” 

Cartman plopped onto the squeaky mattress. “Yup.” 

Kenny smiled. “Thanks, Wends.” 

Her needle-point eyes bared Kenny’s soul. “What actually went down tonight?” 

Cartman paused in undoing his laces, one boot shunted on the carpet. “What makes you say that?” 

“He’s an awful liar.” 

“Nothing went down.” 

“Eric...” 

“It’s all good.” Cartman’s other boot thumped next to its counterpart. “Go nurse Stan’s ego. I arm-wrestled him into submission.” 

Their alpha stalemate prickled Kenny’s beta sensibilities. He climbed onto the mattress and soothed Cartman’s taut spine. “Everything’s fine, Wendy.”

“Something’s going on,” she said. “And I’ll get to the bottom of it.” 

Cartman reclined against Kenny’s chest. “Getting into other people’s business has always been your shtick.” 

“You are not other people. You’re my friends.” 

“We aren’t friends. You hate me.”

“From a place of love, which I know you reciprocate.” Wendy raised her hand. “Just be quiet. And don’t have sex on my couch.”

“Night, Call Girl,” Cartman leered as she whisked down the hall. 

Kenny eased Cartman flat on the mattress. They laid there for awhile, staring at each other through the dark quiet. Once their drunken hiccups diminished, Kenny unsteadily sluiced to his feet.

“Whoa, there--” Cartman sat up and fumbled for his hand. “What’re you doing?” 

Kenny shucked his grasp. “Grabbing some blankets. Water. Ibuprofen.” 

“Okay,” Cartman burped. He patted Kenny’s leg. “Don’t take too long. I wanna cuddle before I pass out.” 

“Take off your coat, first,” Kenny advised, divesting his own along with his shoes. “I’ll come back and letcha suffocate me.” 

“Can I resuscitate you, too?” 

“Long as you keep it in your pants.”

“No promises.”

The linen cabinet sat between the master bedroom and nursery. Kenny piled blankets into his arms, unabashedly eavesdropping on Stan’s muttered complaints and Wendy’s exasperated consolations. They really were a good match--textbook high school sweethearts, minus all the flaming hoops Kenny and Cartman had jumped through. 

He stubbed his toe on his way out of the bathroom. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath. The blankets fell to the floor, bottle of ibuprofen thumping soundlessly on top. He clutched his socked foot, pain exponentiated tenfold with intoxication.

A soft cry warbled under Emily’s door. 

“Fuck,” Kenny said again. “Fuck, fuck--” 

He peeked inside before her parents were notified. Blue dusk spilled in from the window and washed the pink walls purple, turning the stuffed animals and plastic toys on the floor into amorphous shadows. 

A white convertible crib sat wedged in the corner beneath a tentacled mobile decorated in clouds. Kenny shuffled towards it and unlatched the gate. “Em, I’m sorry--”

“Uncle Kenny’s a real klutz.” 

Kenny whirled away from the squirming toddler. “Eric--what’re you--”

Cartman butted Kenny aside and scooped Emily into his arms. Lulled by his bouncing gait, her fussy sniffling ceased. “That’s it, girlie. If you got a problem, you come to me. Kenny ain’t gonna do shit.” 

“Hey, c’mon,” Kenny said. “That isn’t true.” 

“Oh, she doesn’t know what I’m saying.” Cartman pinched Emily’s tiny foot. “You don’t understand a thing, do you? Whites are the supreme race. Global warming isn’t real. Bush did 9/11. The earth is flat. Your dad’s a cuck.” 

She burbled sleepy, nonsensical babble.

Cartman grinned at Kenny. “See?” 

“She can talk, you know,” Kenny said. “If she starts calling people cucks you’ve got hell to pay.” 

“I’m gonna save the cuckolding lessons for when she’s sixteen.” 

“That’s a specific number.”

“It’s when I’m gonna take her out for her first drink, unless Stan’s isn’t mixing up booze with her formula already.” 

“She’s off formula. She’s eighteen months old. She eats solid food now.” 

Cartman’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, look at you, hotshot. Since when do you know everything about toddler development?” 

Kenny scratched his neck. “I started paying more attention. Back when you first said you wanted to have kids.” 

Cartman blinked. “That was a year ago. I wasn’t even serious. It was just an idea.”

“Then why bring it up?” 

“I didn’t know you’d take it literally!” 

Kenny walloped his arm. “Shh! Stan and Wendy’ll hear.”

Emily kicked Cartman’s hand, offended he’d stopped playing. “And what? Come take care of this?They’d probably thank me for letting ‘em get some actual sleep, Kenny. We’re not kidnapping her. Just shut up for a minute.” 

He collapsed into a rocking chair beside the window. Kenny stood at his shoulder, one hand petting his hair, the other petting Emily’s velvety skin. She started playing with the zipper on Cartman’s sweater, lacking the motor skills to pull it up but liked yanking it down, so Cartman kept re-zipping it for her amusement. 

“Playing house,” Kenny remembered. 

Cartman looked up. “Huh?” 

Kenny cleared the lump out of his throat. “You said I was the one who wanted to play house. But look at you.” 

“Oh, well. It’s good practice.” 

Kenny’s hands stilled. “Imagine if she was our kid.”

Cartman stared at Emily, considering. “I’d never let her go.” 

Kenny dropped a kiss into his hair. Cartman craned his neck and slotted their whiskeyed lips together. Kenny let himself live in the fantasy. No doctors, no fear, no past addiction, no hormonal deficiencies, none of it--just him and his husband and their metaphorical baby. 

Cartman parted. “She’s asleep.”

Kenny’s brow furrowed at Emily’s peaceful countenance. “That was quick.” 

“Guess I’m a natural,” Cartman cracked. The rocking chair creaked as he stood. 

Kenny latched the gate after Emily was safely nestled in her crib. “She looks just like them, doesn’t she?” 

“Yeah, it’s a miracle their ugly made something so pretty.” Cartman’s hand slipped under Kenny’s t-shirt and scratched up his spine. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Kenny sniffed, forcing himself to look away. Emily wasn’t his. But he’d have one of his own, soon. “I’m just happy. I’m just really happy that we’re doing this.” The boulder resituated itself in his throat and his spine bowed under Cartman’s touch. 

“It’s alright,” Cartman soothed. “It’s okay, Ken. I gotcha, c’mon.”

He guided Kenny into the living room. He took Kenny’s jeans off, swaddled him in blankets, then made him swallow two ibuprofen and a glass of water before cradling him like a bottle of Jack--or a baby. 

It reminded Kenny of the months he spent rotting in a drugged daze, Cartman nursing him to sobriety. He tangled their bare legs together, eyes full of unshed tears, vision impeded further by locks of hair he was too lazy to fix. Cartman fixed them for him, smiling an infatuated smile that triggered a fresh wave of bawlbagging.

“That’s enough,” Cartman shushed. “You’re worse than Emily, jeeze.” He grasped the back of Kenny’s head, kissed his nose. 

Kenny couldn’t handle it. “Eric--I love you--”

“I love you too,” Cartman said, firm and fatherly. “Now go to sleep. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, Ken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> went thru a bunch of middle names for kenny before settling on william. "kenneth william mccormick" has a nice ring to it in my opinion. "kenneth william cartman".....not so much, haha.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> equally nervous and excited about this chapter. this is is the last of the preparation type stuff. 
> 
> no update next week as i'll be on vacation, but i'll be editing in advance so i can post right when i get back. next chapter is super juicy and will def be worth the wait.

Kenny rustled awake to the absence of Cartman’s warm embrace and the presence of a vengeful headache. 

Coffee hit his nose. Sunlight touched his shoulderblades. He squinted down at himself and saw that Cartman had stripped his torso bare; he must’ve been tossing in his sleep, as he usually slept naked. The thoughtful consideration reminded Kenny of Cartman’s vow--but why wasn’t he still snoring in Kenny’s ear? Kenny curled facedown into the husband-shaped imprint in the hideaway mattress, waited for his brain to stop seizing, then sat up and dislodged the bile clogging the back of his throat. 

Unmindful of his mostly-nude state, he shambled into the kitchen towards the sound of Cartman’s voice. Wendy sat at the table wearing leggings and an athletic jacket, her hair fastened in a slick ponytail. Cartman sat across from her in his unbuttoned jeans and wrinkled undershirt, bangs mussed with sleep. They turned, in tandem, at Kenny’s arrival: Wendy postured like a judge confident in her domestic jurisdiction, Cartman huddled like a condemned man. Two cups of coffee were presented as evidence between them as well as an ominous baby monitor; its indicator light blinked on and off with Emily’s gurgles and Stan’s perfectly discernible responses. 

Kenny computed all of this in spurts, like an oblivious accomplice walking into a sting operation.

“Morning,” Wendy greeted. “Want some coffee?” 

“Sit down, for Christ’s sake,” Cartman said when Kenny remained frozen. 

The anxiety undercutting his command spurred Kenny to tentatively lower into the chair at his side. “So, did, uh--did--” 

“Call Girl’s at it again,” Cartman confirmed. 

“It was an honest mistake,” Wendy said. “You can’t expect us not to have a monitor in her room--”

“How much did you hear?” Kenny asked. 

“Everything,” Cartman answered. 

Wendy abdicated to the coffee pot burbling on the counter. “How do you like yours, Kenny?” 

Normally Kenny would say black. “Lotsa cream and sugar,” he said instead to keep her occupied. He then kissed Cartman’s clenched jaw, whispered, “What happened?” 

Cartman said nothing. His consternated brow told Kenny the gist, details supplemented by the angry twist of his mouth. He nodded at the monitor crackling with Stan’s laughter, flapped his hand at Kenny’s quizzical frown. 

Kenny reeled back into his seat as Wendy set a steaming mug in front of him. Having the larger sweet tooth, Cartman nudged his own light brown coffee in exchange for the quasi-milkshake, knowing it’d go to waste otherwise. 

Wintry sunlight weaseled past the window above the sink and stretched across the table. Kenny watched Cartman over his donated coffee, who watched Wendy over a scowl, who watched them both over a tempered smile. 

“Quit looking at me like I’m going to kill you,” she said. 

“You misunderstand,” Cartman said. “I want to kill you.” 

“Eric, please. What do you think I’m going to do with this information, anyway?” 

Cartman’s eyes narrowed. “Call DCFS. Get a preemptive drop on us.” 

Wendy shook her head, exasperated yet primarily amused. “I would never. You treat Emily amazing. You’ll treat your own child even better.” 

Cartman paused, unsure how to communicate when they weren’t at each other’s throats. It was the closest Wendy had ever come to complimenting him. Kenny stared at the baby monitor and timidly sipped his coffee, wondering if all it took for alphas to get along was to have kids. But then again Cartman wasn’t a full-blooded alpha--for all Kenny knew his hermaphroditic instincts would combine into something even worse than his baseline assholery. 

“I think it’s great,” Wendy continued. “Am I surprised? Yes. I can’t say that I’m not. I never pegged either of you as, well, the parenting type. But now?” Her face softened to a degree Kenny had never seen before. “Now, it’s different.”

Cartman smacked his thighs. “Golly gee, Wendy! Thanks for the fucking approval. Without your blessing I would’ve called the whole thing off.”

Kenny raked his hair back, squashing a migraine squashed behind his hand. “Eric, please--”

“Wendy, I hold your opinion in such high regard,” Cartman barreled on. “Why don’tcha just dictate the whole operation? You wanna be my Lamaze coach, too?” 

“Does Stan know?” she asked, breezily skirting past his sarcasm.

“Of course Stan knows! What do you think we do on guys’ night, sit around in a circle jerk singing kumbaya?” Cartman swiped his coffee off the table and chugged a swill which he immediately spat back into the cup. “Goddamn! Did you put Emily’s Pediasure in this?” 

“She’s too young for Pediasure,” Wendy informed. 

“Oh, okay, my fucking bad.” Cartman elbowed Kenny’s ribcage. “Are you taking notes?” 

“Would you calm down?” Kenny besieged. 

“I won’t let Stan know that I know,” Wendy assured them. “I imagine it’s killing him to keep it a secret.”

Cartman thunked his mug down. “It’ll be easy. When we tell you the big news just act as surprised as you were when he didn’t come out as gay.” 

“Show some respect,” Kenny reprimanded. "They let us into their home, man.” 

“We would’ve been at our home if you’d let me drive,” Cartman said.

“No way were you gonna drive. You were a hot mess.”

“Really? Was I the one sobbing myself to sleep last night?” 

Kenny slapped Cartman’s shoulder. “Dude! That’s fucking private!” 

Cartman slapped him back. “So was our decision to procreate!”

Wendy cleared her throat. “Eric, Kenny--”

“Shut the fuck up, Testaburger,” Cartman snapped.

“It’s Marsh,” she corrected. 

Cartman jettisoned to his feet. “I don’t give a flying fuck, you goddamn snoop!” 

Kenny matched Cartman’s stance, nearly half a foot taller. “Eric, stop it--” 

His vertical advantage didn’t intimidate Cartman whatsoever. “I’ve got a right to be angry!”

“I’m not saying you don’t! Just cool it, okay?”

“How am I supposed to cool it now the cat’s out the fucking bag?” Cartman demanded, gesticulating wildly. “Let’s just tell the whole world!”

“You’re the one who wanted to tell Stan and Kyle,” Kenny reminded him. 

Cartman scuttled backwards, out of rage rather than deference; he ideally preferred an entire football field, or at least a theatric flight of stairs, to air his grievances. “I told them because I knew they’d be over the moon! I mean, fuck, Kenny! I needed a little goddamn positive reinforcement!” 

Wendy’s chair screeched across the floor. “Both of you, that’s enough!” 

Her bide for peace went ignored. Kenny strode forward, wrenched Cartman’s arms down to his sides. “I’ve been positively reinforcing you ever since this started!” 

“No you haven’t,” Cartman barked. “You’re all over the fucking place. One second you’re all ‘oh, Eric, you can do whatever you want, I’ll give you whatever you need’--and the next you’ve got a whole goddamn itinerary of bullshit I gotta follow!” 

“It’s only because I care!” 

“Well you got a real funny way of showing it,” Cartman leered. “Whatcha gonna do, hit me? Beat me and our kid like your old man beat you and your mom?” 

Kenny tossed him against the counter. “Fuck you for even saying that! What about you, huh? You gonna get cold feet and skip out like your dad?” 

A pair of kitschy salt and pepper shakers clattered to the floor as Cartman straightened. “Fuck you, Kenny! Maybe we shouldn’t even do this!”

“Maybe we shouldn’t! Clearly you’re still a fucking child--” 

“As if! I’m the only adult between us! Have you ever once taken responsibility for yourself? Have you ever once looked at our finances--” 

“Would you shut up about the money! I don’t give shit about the money! Sometimes I wanna give it all away and go back to your mom’s house--”

“Because that’s a great environment for a baby!”

“What d’you expect at our place? You want our kid growing up in a castle on the hill spoiled as fuck, turn into an even bigger asshole than you?” 

“Better than ‘em taking after you, you spineless ingrate!” 

“Fine! If we’re both such awful people, let’s not have a kid!” 

“Fine! Spare me the tragedy of experiencing my child fucking dying inside of me--” 

Kenny sucked a sharp inhale. The hot iron clamping his bones vaporized. “Eric...” 

Cartman realized his omission and averted his eyes, shoulders hunched. Wendy stood behind them, her hands glued to her mouth. 

Stan, the moron he was, chose that moment to waltz into the kitchen, Emily on his hip. “Hey, what’s with all the fighting--” He stopped on the threshold. “Uh...guys? Wends?” 

Cartman blustered out of the room; a door slammed shut shortly thereafter. Wendy reanimated at the sound, swept towards Stan and looped their daughter into her arms. “I was about to go for a run, anyway. I’ll take her stroller.” 

“It’s cold,” Stan said for the lack of anything else to say. 

“She’ll be okay,” Wendy promised. 

The mother and daughter whisked off. Stan waffled on his socked feet, mustache twitching. “So... Are you gonna go get him?” 

Kenny reclined his elbows on the counter. “I guess I should, huh.”

“Do you--do you want me to go get him?” 

“He’ll kill you on sight, dude. It’s my problem. Eric’s always my fucking problem.” 

“Well,” Stan began, halted, then resumed. “Whatever happened just now, and whatever’s coming with the baby...it can’t be worse than what you two’ve been through before.” 

“I think it might be,” Kenny sighed. “I think it’s not even at its worst, yet.” 

Stan’s optimism endured. “You don’t know that, Kenny--” 

Wendy poked her head into the kitchen. “Eric’s in the backyard.” She sent a pointed look at Stan. “Do you want to come with me and Emily?” 

Stan startled out of his awkward lean. “Uh, I was gonna take ‘em to get their truck, I thought--”

“We’ll call another cab,” Kenny said.

“Are you sure?” Stan asked. 

“Yes, he’s sure,” Wendy said. “Go get dressed, Stan. Now.” 

With one final, baleful glance at Kenny, Stan left to fulfill his wife’s demand. 

Kenny’s nerves were fried, his stomach churning. It took him a long time to rise from the counter, and even longer to speak. “Wish me luck--” 

“Eric’s worried that he’s going to miscarry,” Wendy stated. 

Kenny slumped once more. “He’s nervous about all the medical stuff. I didn’t know it was eating him up that bad. Last night, at the bar, the doctor called. I guess it shook him up.” 

“What’d they say?” 

“That we can start trying. But he doesn’t think he can pull it off.” 

“Because of his presentation?” 

“Everything’s about his presentation.” 

Wendy tucked Emily’s head under her chin. Trussed in a puffy coat and matching hat, Emily anxiously pawed her mother’s ponytail. “Em was early. I had to have an emergency C-section.” 

“I remember,” Kenny said. As if he could forget the sight of Stan running into the waiting room of Hell’s Pass obstetrics ward dressed in papery scrubs, shaking with equal parts joy and relief. 

“But everything worked out,” Wendy said. “We were both fine. Eric will be too. He’s a strong person.” 

“You should tell him that,” Kenny suggested. 

Wendy snorted. “Oh, he won’t listen to me.”

“Yeah, well. He ain’t listening to me either.”

“He will. He just needs to get out of his head.” 

“He’d have to get his head out of his ass first.” 

Wendy didn’t register it as a joke. “That’s why this is so hard for him. He’s trying to change, but he’s never been great at.” 

Kenny recounted the chubby kid who used to throw rocks at cars and start fights on the playground, compared to the man from last night who soothed a baby to sleep and wiped his tears away. “You’d be surprised. If you knew him like I did...” 

“That’s my point,” Wendy said. “I don’t know him like you do. Neither does Stan, or Kyle, or anyone else. Just you, Kenny. It’s always been that way.”

Kenny couldn’t argue that--not when stated by the most objective person he knew, and likewise corroborated by Cartman himself the previous night. He stood, gathering shaky resolve. “Thanks, Wends.” 

She strode forward and pecked his cheek. “You’re welcome.” 

He noticed his jacket was missing as he got redressed. Cartman had left his own behind so Kenny put that on instead, the supple suede material swamping his skinny shoulders. He walked out to the backyard, boots unlaced, hair spilling out of the raised hood. A recent warm front had melted all the snow into brown slush, leaving the world smelling an old sock turned inside out. Cartman was sitting on the swingset Stan had prematurely constructed for Emily, which would be customarily rusty by the time she was old enough to put her tetanus vaccinations to use. 

Kenny claimed the second swing. Cartman didn’t stir. A cigarette was pinched between his lips, the sleeves of his sweater rolled to his elbows. Kenny lit a cigarette for himself, then returned the pack of Camels and gold Zippo to his own jean jacket spread across Cartman’s knees. 

“Dunno the last time I was on one of these,” he exhaled. “Remember when we were fifteen? And you got stuck in the baby swing and the firefighters had to cut you down?” 

Cartman glanced through the smoke curling between them. “What do you want, Kenny?” 

Kenny shrugged. “Thought we could hang out for a bit, if that’s alright.” 

“You’re here, I’m here.” Cartman looked ahead at nothing. “There you go.” 

“I could spend the rest of my life here with you,” Kenny confessed. “Don’t gotta call 911 or anything.” 

Cartman rolled his eyes. “That’s kind of the whole concept of marriage, gorgeous.” 

Kenny grinned. “I still get excited when you say stuff like that.” 

“Stuff like what? Acknowledging that we are legally bonded?” 

“Or spiritually bonded. Emotionally bonded. It’s more than just a piece of paper, dude.” 

Cartman ashed his cigarette. “Everything comes down to a piece of paper. Our lives are a bunch of federal documents.” 

“Don’tcha get tired being so pessimistic, Cartman?” 

“Oh, I see how it is. I’ve been demoted back to a surname basis--” 

“No, man. I’ve been promoted to the same surname basis--” 

“Anything’s better than McCormick. Hitler, Marsh, Broflovski. Anything. Even Tenorman.” 

“But Cartman’s the best. Cartman’s the only one that’ll fit me. Anyway, I call you both. Depending.” 

“Depending on what?”

“Depending on the day. Depending on who we’re with. Cartman’s for everybody. Cartman doesn’t take any shit. Eric, though--he’s mine. Only I get to see who Eric really is.” 

Cartman canted his head, eyes narrowed. “And who’s he?” 

Kenny laced their fingers. Cartman’s were predictably warm; he exuded body heat like a furnace, always there to dethaw Kenny’s permanently frigid skeleton. “He’s this dude I married. He takes care of me. He saved my life, way back when. And he loves me. Even when I didn’t have a cent to my name. Even when I was better off dead.” 

“Sounds like he was in love with you way before that,” Cartman said. “Sounds like he’s been in love with you since he watched you eat a worm at recess in fifth grade.” 

“Explains why he always dared me to eat bugs,” Kenny chuckled. He dug his toes into the wet ground and swung closer; Cartman clutched his hand, anchoring him. “You want me to eat a worm? Will that cheer you up?” 

Cartman’s irritable expression twitched with fond amusement. “You can’t. They’re underground. They’re hibernating.” 

The random fact threw Kenny off. “They are?” 

“Whatcha think happened to ‘em in the winter, numbnuts?” 

“I dunno. I guess I thought they all died then came back in the spring.” 

“There’d be no coming back if they were all dead.” 

“Where d’they go, then?” 

“Underground, I told you. They burrow down and sleep in slime.” 

Kenny’s nose scrunched. “Sounds fake.”

“It’s real,” Cartman sniffed. His cigarette sizzled and draped another smoky partition in the air. “Sometimes I think I’d like to be a worm. Wake up and play in the rain. Spend two weeks crawling down the sidewalk. Then, when I finally get to the street corner, somebody steps on me and ends it all.” 

“That’s stupid talk,” Kenny said. “You got a good life, don’tcha? You told Stan last night life’s good.” 

“Stan’s like a puppy,” Cartman said. “You get a golden retriever in your face, of course life seems good.” 

“What about now?” Kenny asked. “What about with me in your face?” 

Cartman regarded the smoke ribboning in front of them. “Would you mind if I burnt you?” 

“Sure,” Kenny consented. Cartman unceremoniously stubbed his cigarette on the back of Kenny’s hand. Kenny grunted, knifed his toes deeper into the mud to catch his keeling spine. “Shit--” 

Cartman flicked the cigarette away for Stan’s daughter or some neighborhood squirrel to pick up. “I’m sorry.”

“No you ain’t,” Kenny grunted.

“No, really.” Cartman turned. “I’m sorry, Kenny. All that shit I told you.” 

“Well,” Kenny finished suckling his own cigarette, unlocked their fingers and stamped an additional blister, “me too--” 

Cartman snatched his wrist. “Hey! Only I get to do that--in a controlled setting, with your express permission--” 

“It was a joke. It’s funny--” 

“It’s not funny! There’s fucking protocol!” Cartman sandwiched Kenny’s hand between his wide palms. “What’s the deal? You jonesing for a high? Low on endorphins?” 

Kenny’s chapped lips cracked in an acerbic smile. “Maybe I needed some negative reinforcement.” 

Apparently nobody had a sense of humor anymore, least of all Cartman. “That’s not how this works. If that’s how you wanna play, I’m forfeiting the game--” 

Kenny frowned. “It’s only fair, with all the shit you’ve been through lately--”

“The shit I’m going through has nothing to do with you--’ 

“The hell it doesn’t!” 

Cartman’s lips pursed. “I mean you’re not my punching bag. The only reason I push you around is ‘cause you like it. If it becomes some sorta sacrifice ritual, I’m out.”

“But get something from it too, right?” Kenny asked.

“Sure.” Cartman cleaved his palms open. “I get to put you back together again.” 

Cold air rushed across Kenny’s blisters, dichotomized by Cartman’s warmth. “I can put you back together again, too. You’re falling apart with all this. Y’gotta lemme pick up the pieces.” 

“You’ll cut yourself,” Cartman warned. “I’m a buncha broken glass.”

“Quit being a drama queen.” Kenny inched closer; his hood deployed more of his hair. “You’re a like a feisty little kitten. Nobody else knows it, but I do. You’re all rough and tough till I getcha to show me your belly.” 

Cartman swallowed, too torn up to construct any defenses. “Only for you. You’re a damn saint. I’m gonna make the pope get you canonized.”

Kenny tired of speaking in metaphors. “I love you, Eric. And I need you to let me.” 

Cartman’s brow shot into his bangs. “I distinctly recall saying yes when you proposed. What’s your point?” 

“My point is that you’re holding out on me. My point is that you’re not being totally honest.” Kenny leaned down and nosed Cartman’s neck, relinquishing eye contact. “How long’ve you been telling yourself our baby’s gonna die?” 

Cartman swung backwards. “I’m not having this conversation here!”

Kenny careened forward, unanchored, and gripped the chains of his swing to steady himself. “Then let’s go home and have this conversation there.”

“I’d rather not. I’d rather we never discuss this until it happens.” 

“It’s not gonna happen--” 

“The odds, Kenny! Do you know the odds?” 

“Do you?” 

“Thirty-five percent,” Cartman announced. “I asked when the doctor called. He didn’t want to say over the phone. I made him tell me. I wanted to know. Before we did anything else--”

“Why?” Kenny asked. “Why freak yourself out like that? You’re gonna grow a tiny person for nine months. Then we have a baby. That’s it.” 

“That’s not it,” Cartman snapped. “You call me a pessimist? You’re too much of an optimist! There’s a thirty-five percent chance that I’ll end up shitting a fetus--”

“And an eighty-percent chance you won’t--” 

“It’s basic math, idiot! It’s sixty-five percent. That’s almost fifty-fifty. It’s a high-risk pregnancy, Kenny.” 

“This is what I’m talking about, Eric,” Kenny groaned. “You shoulda told me. Diandra says--” 

“Fuck Diandra,” Cartman seethed. “Fuck Wendy. Fuck Stan and Kyle. Fuck everybody. I’m so sick of measuring our relationship by other people’s standards.”

“Okay, then we need some standards of our own,” Kenny said. “Number one is if we’re freaking out about something, we tell each other.” 

Cartman lifted an eyebrow. “Okay, what’re you freaking out about?” 

“Nothing,” Kenny dismissed. “I’m fine--” 

“Bullshit! Rule number two is you aren’t allowed to pretend you’re fine all the time.” 

“But--” 

“No, shut up. Don’t fucking censor yourself for my sake. If you have something you want to say, say it.”

Kenny sank deeper into Cartman’s coat, let the suede envelop his hunched shoulders. “I’m worried about you.” 

Cartman blinked. “Me?” 

“Yeah, man. And this.” Kenny gestured between them. “This can’t keep happening, whether we have a kid or not. But especially if you’re pregnant. I need to know what’s going on. You won’t tell me shit.” 

Cartman chewed the inside of his cheek. “I tell you shit all the time.”

“You tell me when you’re angry,” Kenny said. “You tell me when you’re okay. But you don’t tell me if you’re sad or nervous or anything. I know you like to think it doesn’t mean nothing, but we are married--” 

“I think it means a hell of a lot,” Cartman interjected. He brandished his left ring finger. “Hello!” 

“Okay,” Kenny said. “You wear a ring. We have a joint bank account. I took your last name. That’s all paper stuff. I’m talking about real life stuff. I’m talking about, you know, something more than that.” He fingered his own wedding band like it was a talisman that would impart marital fortune. “We’ve been married for five damn years and all it feels like is we’re friends with benefits.” 

“That’s not true,” Cartman argued, his anger rising to mask the genuine hurt beneath it. “We’re pretty good, aren’t we? You’re not unhappy, are you?” 

“We are pretty good,” Kenny said. “And I am happy. But we’ve always been pretty good and I’m always happy with you. I want more.” 

“Y’want me to write you a love poem and getcha some flowers? ‘Cause I’m not that kinda guy--” 

“Obviously. Jesus Christ, Eric. I just want you to quit hiding stuff from me. I want you to be honest with me without getting drunk.” 

Cartman’s mouth formed a hard, flat line. “I don’t have a drinking problem.” 

“You have an emotional problem,” Kenny clarified. “You have a problem with letting me see all of you.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? We work from home. We probably see each other too much, if we’re being honest. You’re the only person who’s seen anything of me. That’s a pretty big fucking privilege!” 

“I know it is. I know I’m the only one. You told me that last night.” 

Cartman glanced away. “Well, yeah.” 

“I’ve seen a lot of you,” Kenny continued. “Back when you were a punk kid and a punk teenager and a punk twenty-year-old trying to do right by all you did wrong. I’ve seen you as a best friend and a boyfriend and my husband.”

“Yes, I know,” Cartman muttered. The redness in his face receded to a fatigued pink. “I remember. Y’don’t gotta bring it all up again.” 

Kenny stabbed the heels of his boots into the ground, swung forward, and clutched Cartman’s chained fists, bracketing them both in his lanky arms. Cartman looked up, all his previous iterations rolled into one iron-willed, resignedly vulnerable man.

“You need to be reminded of all your parts, sometimes,” Kenny told him, “You get hooked on one part of yourself and forget the rest. I’ve seen ‘em all--but sometimes I think you forget that. And then when you find some new part of yourself you don’t want me to see it.”

“You shoulda been a shrink,” Cartman said. “You’d give Diandra a run for her money.” 

“Eric,” Kenny pleaded. “Man, come on.” 

Cartman puffed his cheeks. “What d’you want me to say, that you’re right? Okay, Kenny, you’re right. You’re right about everything.” 

“Am I, though? Or are you just saying that so I’ll shut up?” 

“I’m not just saying it. If you were wrong, I’d tell you. Trust me.” 

Kenny dipped low and pressed their foreheads together. Muddy snow stirred beneath their buttressed toes. The world wasn’t so much a wet sock anymore, but rather a half-melted slushie distilled to sweet, uncut syrup.

Cartman’s forehead slid down to Kenny’s shoulder. “Can we go home, now? Can you give me back my coat?” 

“If you give me mine. And the smokes. I’m throwing ‘em out.” 

“Never mind then.” 

Kenny shepherded Cartmaninside and called a cab whilst Cartman refolded the hideaway and returned their blankets to the linen closet. It was as much of an apology as he was able to muster; Wendy would understand. 

They ambled down the front steps, Kenny still wearing Cartman’s coat, his own jacket hanging off Cartman’s arm. Stan and Wendy advanced perpendicular, and they all convened on the sidewalk. 

“Could we talk for a second?” Wendy asked. 

“No,” Cartman said. 

“Okay,” she said, then handed Emily’s stroller off to Stan and dragged Cartman down the street. 

She turned him around so that his blocky frame shielded both of them from view. Kenny gave up watching and looked at Stan, who asked, “What’s that about?” 

“Beats me,” Kenny lied. He squatted in front of Emily’s stroller. She smiled at him, swaddled in her winter coat and a thick blanket. “I’m leaving, Em.” 

Her smile flattened. One of her arms burst through its trappings to fumble for the ends of his hair. “Kay,” she said. It wasn’t an affirmative--she just hadn’t learned to vocalize the rest of his name yet. 

Stan folded the top of her stroller down and booped her nose. “Don’t worry, hon. Uncle Kenny can come back and play.” 

“Maybe you can come to my house,” Kenny said. “Give your parents a break. It’ll be a sleepover.” 

“Uh,” Stan said. “I dunno, man--” 

“Your dad’s got separation anxiety,” Kenny told Emily. “Whatcha say? You wanna hang out with me and Uncle Eric?” 

“Rick,” Emily babbled. 

“No, it’s Eric,” Kenny said. 

Emily yanked his hair. “Rick, Rick, Rick!”

“Okay, okay!” Kenny gently pried her gloved fist away, his split-ends frizzling with static. “We’ll work on it.” 

Emily clapped her hands. “Cat!” 

“Yeah, Mittens’ll be there too.” 

“Kitty cat!” 

“She’s big on animals right now,” Stan explained. “Aren’t you, Emily? What sound does a cat make?” 

“Me-ow,” Emily intoned. 

Kenny stood and glanced down the street. “Oh, shit--Stan, look.” 

Wendy had Cartman locked in a tight hug. The miraculous thing about it was that Cartman hugged her back just as tight. 

“Whoa,” Stan said. “Does she know? Did he tell her?” 

Emily saved Kenny from answering. “Daddy!” 

Stan picked her up. “What is it, sweetheart?” 

She pointed at Wendy and Cartman. “Mommy.” 

“Mommy’s, uh, busy,” Stan said. “Mommy’s talking to Uncle Eric.” 

Emily wiggled her upper body; Stan held onto her butt and stabilized her outstretched hand with his own. “Mommy,” she called. “Rick!” 

Wendy whispered something to Cartman’s ear. Their faces were schooled to neutrality upon return, their temporary amnesty abolished. 

Cartman assuaged Kenny’s curiosity with a hand on his back. “I’ll tell you later.”

Stan wasn’t so easily sated. “Wendy, what did you--”

“Nothing, Stan.” She transferred Emily into her arms. “Emily, tell Daddy to mind his own business.” 

“I offered to babysit,” Kenny said. “When’s the last time you and Stan went on a date?” 

“Oh, jeeze,” Wendy sighed. She wrangled Emily’s fist away from her ponytail. “Sweetie, stop it.” 

“That’ll be fun,” Cartman said. “See who’s her favorite uncle.” 

“It’s obviously me,” Kenny grinned. 

“She only likes your hair,” Cartman said. “It’s purely cosmetic.” 

“My daughter is not vain,” Wendy said. 

The cab pulled up to the curb. Everybody looked at each other, uncertain how to end the eventful morning. 

“Bye,” Cartman said. 

He pushed Kenny into the cab, plopped down beside him, and slammed the door. 

“Dude,” Kenny said. 

“What?” Cartman asked. “I’m fucking tired, Kenny. I don’t have time for pleasantries.” He pilfered the inside of his coat for his wallet and tossed a couple twenties at the driver. “Micro Brew, make it quick.” 

Kenny grasped his knee. “What did Wendy say?” 

“I’ll tell you later,” Cartman repeated.

The extra cash leadened the driver’s foot. They arrived at Micro Brew in under ten minutes. The establishment looked sad in the daylight, its European style patio encumbered by muddy deluge, its neon signs dull and indiscernible. Cartman marched across the empty parking lot towards Kenny’s solitary truck and rocketed the hell out of town. 

Absence had made Kenny’s heart grow fonder, but not Cartman’s. He avoided South Park like the plague. He went grocery shopping once month and bought in bulk, visited their friends once a month and drank in bulk; he let his obligations stack up, rendered them with a frenzied slash, then returned to his hermitage until he had to restart the exhaustive process. 

The tension visibly bled out of his shoulders once they crossed the front door of their house. He abandoned Kenny’s jacket on the floor and lumbered into the living room. “Mittens! Where are you?”

“She’s giving you the cold shoulder,” Kenny said, following Cartman after shedding his own borrowed outerwear. He collapsed onto their enormous sectional, crossed his arms atop his forehead, and closed his eyes. 

Cartman circuited back. “It’s not my fault we were gone. She shouldn’t be pissed at me.” He wedged Kenny’s legs apart and laid down on Kenny’s chest. “She could’ve been Kevin McAllister-ing it up all night. Fighting ninjas and thieves. We’d never know.” 

“We’ll have to set up a camera. I bet all she does is clean her vagina on my pillow.” 

“Nah. She likes you.” 

“She tolerates me. She’s your cat. I’m just the third wheel.” 

“I’ll discuss it with her,” Cartman decided. “Where’s the remote?” 

Kenny located it with his long-ass arm. Cartman proceeded to channel surf. He had purchased the biggest cable package just because they could afford it, despite the service’s growing obsoleteness. Same went for the couch and the flatscreen and everything else in the house, including the house. Kenny thought their accouterments lacked sentimental value, but he valued Cartman’s sentiment more than anything and never objected. 

Cartman settled on Japanese pro wrestling. Kenny began petting his hair, starting from his hairline down to the nape of his neck. 

“Wendy told me she had a miscarriage,” Cartman said. 

Kenny halted his ministrations. “She did?” 

“Yeah.” Cartman looked up, hair splayed soft around Kenny’s fingers. “Before her and Stan were married. It was a fluke. They didn’t know until, well. It happened.” 

Kenny relinquished Cartman’s hair and scrubbed the pained surprise off his face. “What the fuck. Why didn’t they tell anybody?” 

“What would they have said?” Cartman asked. “We almost had a baby, false surprise? I don’t blame ‘em. I’m just saying those are the fucking odds. If it happened to them, it can happen to us.” He lowered his face into Kenny’s chest. “I shouldn’t have told the guys. I shouldn’t have been talking about it last night, either. I should’ve known we were under surveillance.” 

“It’s good you told ‘em,” Kenny said. “They’re our friends. They’d want to know--even if it goes bad. I sure would’ve liked to know about Wendy.” 

“I guess,” Cartman huffed. 

“What else did she say?” 

“She said I shouldn’t let it stop me. She said if she let it stop her, Emily wouldn’t have been born.” 

Cartman resumed watching the over-dramatic Oriental tussling on TV. Kenny didn’t acknowledge the wet spot growing on the front of his t-shirt. Those Japs were so jacked it’d make anybody cry. Hell, he was a little teary-eyed himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've actually watched japanese pro wrestling and it's honestly very entertaining


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, i'm back! 
> 
> not exactly pleased with this chapter lol but it is what it is. hopefully the cumulative smut scene next week will redeem me. after this we're reeeeaally getting into the thick of things.

Kenny had started naming the soulless babies decorating the fertility clinic’s walls. The one snoozing between fluffy clouds he dubbed Joseph; Sarah proferred a dandelion puffball; Timothy sported a gummy smile. He imagined they were eldritch horrors--Joseph ruled the stormy skies, Sarah turned everybody into ash, and Timothy was a cannibal. 

The game helped pass time. After getting booted out to the waiting room by Cartman, Kenny had a lot of time to pass. He was pretty sure spousal omission was optional, and he had several educated guesses as to why Cartman optioned to omit him. 

The only way Cartman survived emotional situations was to armor himself in total apathy. Kenny couldn’t operate like that. He wore his heart on his forehead, a giant billboard advertising all he felt at any given moment. He suspected Cartman was discussing the risks involved in the pregnancy, contingency plans, worst case scenarios; were he present for the deliberations he’d have thrown Cartman’s war conduct out of whack, projecting his discontent across their telepathic bond. He was still projecting from afar, but at least there was a spatial difference.

The waiting room, much like the rest of the clinic, was decorated with monochromatic babies, plastic flowers, and chintzy abstract paintings. Kenny flicked through some books for textual variety. If he found What to Expect When You’re Expecting, he’d give himself twenty points. 

Instead he found a magazine dedicated solely to betas. One of the featured articles, plastered across the glossy cover in bold font, read How To Serve Your Pregnant Alpha. The vocabulary implied old-fashioned mores. Interest piqued nonetheless, Kenny flipped to the given page.

The article opened with an archaic delineation of alphas’ natural sovereignty followed by a critique of betas’ wishy-washy natures. Step-by-step instructions advised Kenny to bathe Cartman’s feet, kiss Cartman’s ass, and generally assert himself as Cartman’s underling to overcompensate for Cartman’s jeopardized authority.

He turned to the following piece entitled How To Administer Your Pregnant Omega. This time around betas were a-okay, to an extent. Kenny’s lack of alpha roid-rage wouldn’t upset Cartman’s delicate constitution, and he could still square up and cradle Cartman through his whiny mood swings, though naturally it wouldn’t be as effective as an alpha’s domineering comforts.

The big takeaway from either article was that Kenny had to mime imitations of alpha and omega behaviors. This was supposed to keep Cartman’s psychology in line and maintain a healthy gestational environment for the baby. The author noted that betas, unfortunately, do not have any strong biological imperative. Whilst this proved handy in certain circumstances it was a real let down in terms of pregnancy. What did Kenny have to match Cartman’s base instincts, which would steadily metastasize as the pregnancy progressed? Nothing, according to the author. 

According to Kenny the whole thing was a crock of horse shit. He pondered tearing the articles out, clipping their highlights and pasting them together in a frankensteined how-to he’d present to Cartman. It’d be a real hoot; a needed joke about a decidedly unfunny topic. 

Just as he was ready to go through with the craft project somebody tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up to find a auburn-haired woman staring down at him. She was probably around his age if he had to guess, though her makeup and business-casual attire made it hard to discern--methodical outer trappings that could add ten years to a young woman or subtract five from an older woman. 

“Are you Kenny Cartman?” she asked. 

Kenny frowned. “Yeah. Who’re you?” 

The whole clinic was the last vanguard for print publications, it seemed. The woman pulled out a magazine of her own, a New York Times subsidiary covered with a bunch of paintings spliced together in a multicolored collage that formed the issue’s thematic title: The New Wave of American Art. 

“This is you, right?” the woman asked. “From the MoMA. ”

She opened to a dog-eared page. Imprisoned by blocks of 12-point font, a photo of Kenny’s most successful non-objective painting hanging on the Museum of Modern Art’s unremarkable gallery wall was depicted in laser-print ink. Kenny himself stood beside it, his hair pulled back in a half-hearted braid, his stiff blazer parted to reveal a patterned button-down. He was looking off-frame, towards Cartman he assumed. He didn’t remember much of the show opening partly because he’d chosen to drink away his social anxiety, as exhibited by the champagne flute he held in his hand. The whole evening gave him mnemonic whiplash whenever he thought about it.

“Do you take commissions?” she asked. 

He squinted at the woman. “Not off the street. I have a website. You can get my business number there.” 

“Oh, of course.” She rolled the magazine up and stuck back into her purse. “I’m sorry. I was just excited to see you.”

Kenny deftly chucked Beta Parenting onto the end table. “Okay, well, thanks, I guess--”

She took note of the magazine’s title. “Are you expecting?” 

Patience worn thin, Kenny stood and breezed past her towards the reception desk. “Hey, uh, do y’know how much longer it’ll be?” 

“No telling,” the receptionist said. 

Kenny looked over his shoulder. The woman had taken his vacant seat. He leaned towards the receptionist. “That lady behind me,” he whispered. “Is she, like, a patient here?” 

The receptionist’s keyboard clacking ceased. She weaseled a hidden glance. “I don’t recognize her. Is she giving you trouble?” 

Kenny doubted nothing but the creeps was a suitable answer. “No. Thanks, anyway.” 

He abdicated to a square cutout facing the city street. The woman’s eyes burned through the wall dividing them. He’d dealt with annoying critics, pompous fellow creatives, and devout twenty-something art students, but never a complete stranger and total weirdo like her. The whole thing set his bullshit sensor on high alert; when a hand accosted his elbow, he jolted around quick as a whip. 

Cartman scuffled backwards. “Whoa! It’s just me.” 

“Sorry.” Kenny combed his hair off his face, a nervous tick equivalent to tugging the strings of his old parka. “Um, how’d it go?” 

“It went good,” Cartman said. The anxiety he usually exhibited after appointments such as these was indeed absent; a new anxiety took its place, however. He stepped closer, slower to grasp Kenny’s hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Kenny muttered, thankful he had a pertinent excuse. “Just feel out of the loop.” 

Cartman gave him an apologetic smile. “I wouldn’t have been able to focus with you in there all, y’know, emotive.” 

“I get it,” Kenny said. “Can we leave?” 

“Sure,” Cartman readily agreed.

Too readily, actually. He stapled Kenny to his side at the receptionist desk. Every time Kenny tried searching for the strange woman Cartman squeezed his hip, reorienting his attention to the paperwork before them. It didn’t matter, anyway--the freaky broad had disappeared. 

“What the fuck happened?” Cartman asked once they were alone in the medical complex’s elevator.

“Nothing.” In the past Kenny would’ve left it at that, but they’d been taking a crack at the whole honesty thing ever since the backyard confessional at Stan’s place. “Uh, well, there was this chick. She came up and started talking to me. Showed me that article you told me about. It’s probably nothing. I’m probably making it into a bigger deal than it is.” 

Cartman gripped Kenny’s hand tighter, unwilling to let him play off his discomfort. “Slow down, sweetheart. What’d she want?” 

“She asked if I did commissions.” Kenny pressed close against the elevator wall. “Then if I was expecting.” 

Cartman’s protective alpha instinct prickled. “Nosy cunt!”

“She was just weird. Gave me weird vibes. I don’t know.” 

“You probably won’t see her again. Unless she’s expecting. If she is, I feel sorry for that kid.” 

“That’s the thing. I asked the receptionist and she said she’d never seen her before.” 

“Maybe she’s infertile,” Cartman speculated. “Maybe she’s all shriveled up and goes and lives vicariously through other people, bothers ‘em with invasive questions. What skeeves me out is why she was there in the first place. You’d think their entrance policy would be more discriminate.” 

Not so quick to anger, Kenny buried his discontent under wishy-washy, beta deference. “Maybe.”

The elevator doors whooshed open. Cartman guided Kenny out into the bustling lobby. “Forget about it. If she wants your work that bad, she’ll have to go through me. And if she shows up at our next appointment I’ll raise some hell.” 

“Okay,” Kenny said, comforted by Cartman’s overblown tactics. “So, um, speaking of...” 

Cartman paused near a directory map and flourished a stack of papers. “Take a look.” 

“Diet and exercise,” Kenny read off the first page. 

Cartman jabbed his finger at the long list of forbidden foods. “That’s all the shit I won’t be allowed to eat or drink. No caffeine. How the hell am I gonna stay awake?” 

Kenny studied the rest of the packet. “Lotsa vitamins.” 

“Lots of everything,” Cartman said. “It’s for maximum efficiency. I’m practically gonna be a baby factory.”

“What’s this?” Kenny asked, lifting the last piece of paper. 

Cartman’s face hardened. “Are you illiterate? It’s a prescription, dumbass. For progesterone.” 

“Was there anything else?”

“Nope.” Cartman snatched the papers out of Kenny’s hands and stuffed them under his arm. “I’m all clear, otherwise.” 

He dragged Kenny out to the parking lot, unlocked his Tesla and threw the papers into the middle console, then dropped behind the wheel. 

Kenny fidgeted beside him. “So--” 

“Next time we go back I’ll be pregnant,” Cartman said.

Kenny stilled. “Are you serious?”

“If it all goes to plan.” Cartman eased into the stream of traffic, more conversational now that his attention was split between speaking and driving. “By the time my next heat rolls around...” He glanced at Kenny. “Well.” 

Kenny beamed. “That’s awesome! How long till then?” 

“You know well as I do they’re random as fuck. The doctor gave me something to kickstart it, but I’m not too interested.” Cartman’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t wanna force it. It’s gotta be natural.” 

“Probably for the best,” Kenny acquiesced. 

“It’ll happen when it’s supposed to happen.” Cartman smirked. “Who knows. Maybe it’ll happen sooner than you think.” 

“What’s that mean?” 

Cartman merged onto the throughway that’d take them out of Denver, playing coy. “I dunno, Kenny. You tell me.” 

Kenny appraised signs hitherto unnoticed: the faint blush on Cartman’s cheekbones, the sweat percolating behind his ears, the possessive way he’d held onto Kenny in the waiting room. 

“You’re in heat,” Kenny realized. 

“Technically, no,” Cartman said. “But it’s imminent.” 

“Shouldn’t we wait? Until you get on that stuff?” 

“Sure, we could wait. Three weeks, or three months.” Cartman entwined Kenny’s fingers in his right hand, his left cocked loose over the wheel. “This is all a game of chance. And I intend to take every chance we can get. It probably won’t even work, in all likelihood. Think of it as a practice run if that’ll make it easier. A trial round.” 

“We’re not playing scrimmage, dude. We’re having a baby!” 

“We are having a baby. We’re really having a baby, huh?” 

Kenny laughed. “I guess!” 

“You don’t sound too sure about it,” Cartman chuckled. 

“I’ve never been more sure of anything, besides asking you to marry me.” 

“Aw, shit--” Cartman’s blush intensified. He retracted his hand from Kenny’s and tried scratching it off. “You say the damnedest things.” 

Kenny reclined in his seat, arms crossed. “One of these days you’re gonna have to face up to the fact I’m crazy about you.” 

“I understand perfectly that you’re crazy.” Cartman dropped his hand on Kenny’s thigh and gave it a squeeze. “The other part, I dunno.” 

Conversation lulled after they hit the highway. Kenny didn’t have much else to say, basking in their shared happiness and the cold midday sun. Cartman occasionally stroked Kenny’s kneecap or drummed his fingers on the inside of Kenny’s thigh, but for the most part he simply held on to Kenny and let that communicate what he didn’t want to squander silence vocalizing. 

The mood sobered after awhile. Neither of them said anything but Kenny could feel it anyway. He and Cartman were psychic like that, had been since youth. Everybody was always so mystified at how Kenny could read Cartman’s mood; he’d never been able to explain it was just as easy, and sometimes easier than, gauging his own. 

“Eric,” he said. 

Cartman sat up straighter, eyes pinned on the endless stretch of road in front of them. “The doc and I talked about the odds,” he said, neglecting any prelude. 

“Odds of a miscarriage?” 

“Among other things.” 

“Like what?”

“Preeclampsia, gestational diabetes, preterm labor,” Cartman listed. “Just to name a few.” 

In hindsight it was very foresightful of Cartman to have vetoed Kenny’s attendance. The summary alone made his heart rate spike; he would’ve been intolerable had he heard the doctor’s detailed rundown. He placed his hand over Cartman’s. “I don’t know what half that means.”

“Shit can go south a hundred different ways,” Cartman explained. 

“What?! What do you mean--” 

Cartman soothed the spasm in his leg. “I’m kidding. Kind of. Don’t freak out.” 

“The longer you draw this out the more I’m gonna freak!” 

“Okay, okay.” Cartman let go of Kenny’s thigh and instead cupped the back of his neck as if to keep him in his seat. “The last two are pretty self-explanatory. Some people develop diabetes. Not just weirdos like me, but anybody.” 

“Because of your weight?” 

Cartman’s jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

“You’re not heavy as you used to be,” Kenny said to soften the question’s necessity. “You’ve lost a lot already. That’s an easy fix. I don’t mean easy, easy. But it’s doable.” 

“Anyway,” Cartman abruptly segued. “The baby being premature--that’s like with Emily. Happens with alpha women a lot. They don’t got the endurance for it. Obviously I am not an alpha nor a woman, but--” 

“Is there a way to know for sure?”

“The idea is you don’t expect it.”

Cartman’s tone let Kenny know what a dumb question that was. “Right, um. What about the last thing?” 

“That’s a whole fucking other story,” Cartman sighed. “High blood pressure, kidney problems, liver problems. You can get blood clots. Seizures, too, if it’s real bad.” 

“Seizures?!” 

“If it’s bad,” Cartman emphasized. “It rarely ever gets that bad. But somebody with alpha and omega in ‘em rarely ever happens either, so.” He levied a derisive grin. “I’m kind of a special case.” 

Kenny scowled. “Don’t joke about it! That’s fucking scary!” 

Cartman rolled his eyes. “How the fuck d’you think I feel?” 

Kenny’s lips pursed. “How do you feel?” 

Cartman released Kenny’s neck and rubbed his own. “Feels like I’m ‘bout to go into battle. Feels like somebody told me there’s a thousand landmines between here and base, and I gotta run and shoot blindfolded. Feels terrifying, man.” 

Kenny gave them both time to breathe, then reached across the middle console and tucked Cartman’s hair behind his ear. “You ain’t going alone. I got your six.” 

“I know you do, princess. Just like I got yours.” Cartman’s shoulders heaved with a belabored sigh. “Sometimes I don’t know where we’d be if we didn’t have each other.” 

“We’d be dead. At least, I’d be.” 

“Me too.” 

“But we’re not dead. And we do have each other. And we’re gonna get through this one way or another, no matter what. So don’t put your cart before your horse.”

Cartman gave Kenny a bewildered look. “Don’t put my what?” 

“Don’t stress yourself out before you got something to stress about,” Kenny translated. “It’s something my mom used to say.” 

“Old Carol. She had some bits of wisdom, in between all the crack. You talk to her recently?” 

Kenny recrossed his arms, unenthused about the conversational detour. Cartman hated Kenny’s parents and generally forbid Kenny from interacting with them, not that he much wanted to. “I haven’t spoken to her in years. You know that.” 

“Well, she and your dad need to be informed of our immaculate conception. I wanna tell ‘em to their face they’re never seeing their grandkid.” 

“Cart before the horse, baby,” Kenny said. “Let’s just chill out, okay?”

They chilled out for the remainder of the ride, volleying neutral small talk whenever the quiet got too heavy. Once home, Cartman piddled around downstairs, Mittens at his heels, whilst Kenny splintered off to the studio.  
  
Sometimes when he was in a bad mood it was impossible to paint. Other times the desperation allowed him to work better than usual. Today was one of those lucky breaks. He put on his overalls, manned his paintbrushes, and danced up and down a row of commissions stationed against the studio’s Mecca-facing wall. 

He’d been stewing on them for the past couple weeks. They were slated to ship out in a month. Cartman was big on deadlines; incidentally, Kenny had a habit of making accidental marks that turned a nearly complete piece half-finished, and he worried these in particular would get pushed back. Make a square into a triangle or joust an extra line across the canvas and you throw the whole composition off balance. 

Cartman arrived two hours later, having changed into the Gucci tracksuit he’d ostentatiously denominated as lounge wear. “Break time.” 

Kenny yielded his paintbrushes and dropped onto an overturned milk crate. “What do you think?”

Cartman punted a stool next to Kenny and surveyed the beaten canvases, by now able to tell when a piece’s gestation period had been extended. “Why can’t you just finish something on time? For once? You don’t have the discipline for this abstract stuff. At least when you painted people there was an endpoint. You could rework these forever.”

“That’s the idea,” Kenny said. “People are buying a thousand paintings for the price of one.” 

“Or you could make a thousand paintings and sell ‘em for the price of a thousand.” Cartman plucked the grease rag off the hammer loop of Kenny’s overalls and proceeded to scrape the muck off Kenny’s hands. “Hungry? I made supper.” 

Kenny sniffed the air. Now that Cartman mentioned it, he detected pasta sauce beneath the stench of paint and solvents. His stomach rumbled in response. “Wasn’t before. But now...” 

“It ain’t ready just yet,” Cartman cautioned. “I knew you’d need a heads-up.” He gave Kenny’s hands one final pass, then leaned in for a kiss. “I’ll clean up here. You go shower.”

Kenny’s brow rose. “What’s got you so nice?” 

“I’m a nice guy.” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

Cartman grinned. “I am when I’m with you.” 

Kenny initiated a second kiss lasting much longer than the first. Cartman pressed forward, supplying tongue and teeth. His weight disrupted the equilibrium between Kenny’s ass cheeks and the milk crate, sent Kenny smacking to the floor.

“Shit, sorry!” Cartman yanked him upright by the straps of his overalls. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Kenny laughed. “Are you?” 

Cartman dusted his shoulders off. “I’m fine!” 

Kenny gripped Cartman’s hands still. “You’re all hot and bothered.”

“I’m bothered, certainly.” 

“What’s botherin’ you?” 

Cartman effortlessly wrenched Kenny into his lap. “If you don’t wash up in the next five minutes you’re not getting any of my spaghetti. I’m not gonna let you inseminate me without a candlelit dinner.”   
  
Kenny swallowed his nervous arousal behind a snarky grin. “Why not cut to the chase?” 

“If I wanted to do this cheap and quick I’d get a turkey baster and go to the sperm bank,” Cartman snarked back. “I’m calling the shots, sweetheart. If you got a problem with that you’re welcome to adopt some Chinese orphan.” 

“But I dunno how to use chopsticks.” 

“Jesus!” Cartman jumped to his slippered feet. “Just go already!” 

Kenny floundered off Cartman’s lap and caught himself on all fours. “I’m going, I’m going!” 

Cartman kicked him as he crawled away. “Bitch!”

In ordinance with Cartman’s expedient demands, Kenny plodded into the kitchen fifteen minutes later fresh as a daisy. Everything was dusk and dark, save for a spill of light from their unused dining room and the French doors which quartered the backside of their property and the sunset beyond its mountainous border. 

Kenny diverted toward the dining room. Cartman awaited him at the head of the table, draped in dramatic Chiaroscuro shadows cast by a ridiculous candelabra. He reached for the chair to Cartman’s right, but Cartman paused his hand and nodded at the opposite end of the table. 

“Seriously?” Kenny asked. 

“Humor me,” Cartman besieged. 

Kenny relented to Cartman’s theatrics, purposely gouging the floor as he scooted his chair forward. The scene was set: a king donned in a $3,000 tracksuit and heat-sweat, paralleled by his queen whose damp hair inked black trails down the front of her Daytona 500 sweatshirt.  
  
“Can you pass the spaghetti,” Kenny projected across the mile of lacquered wood between them.  
  
Cartman propelled the noodles down the table, followed by a bowl of red sauce. They clacked together like air hockey pucks. Kenny ladled a helping of each onto his plate and dug in, shoring pasta onto his fork with a piece of garlic bread.

“I thought a little regalia was in order,” Cartman said, his hands steepled above his own untouched plate. “That’s all.” 

Kenny vacuumed a noodle into his mouth. “Are we starting a family or a business meeting?” 

“Starting a family’s pretty serious business.” 

“What’re your terms and conditions?”

“I have none.” 

“Then quit looking at me like that and eat.” 

Cartman didn’t eat, nor did he quit looking at Kenny like that. 

Kenny pushed away from the table, grabbed his plate, and reconvened at Cartman’s side. “Doth this piss you off, my liege?” 

“I wanted everything nice, that’s all,” Cartman said. 

Kenny lowered his fork--and his hackles. He hadn’t seen Cartman so nervous since they went on their first date at KFC. “Are you having second thoughts? Don’t bullcrap me.” 

Cartman grabbed Kenny’s hand, eyes averted. “It’s just finally happening. After waiting so long...”

“We might need to wait a little longer,” Kenny said, thumbing Cartman’s wedding band. “Like you told me. It might not be tonight.” 

Cartman gestured at the grand gesture he’d concocted. “But what if it is?” 

“Then this is it. But it probably won’t be.” 

“I went to the pharmacy while you were working. I went and got all that shit and I took it.” 

“One dose ain’t gonna do much, I don’t think.” 

“Not just the progesterone. I took the other thing too. That’ll jump-start my heat.” 

“But you said--” 

“I know what I said,” Cartman interrupted in a rush. “But I figured if I was already geared up, what’ll it hurt?” 

“What’s it supposed to do?” Kenny asked. 

“Boost fertility, naturally.” Cartman flipped their hands around so that his palm laid on top of Kenny’s, to salvage his jeopardized authority. “It encourages ovulation. The implantation of eggs. You remember sex ed, don’tcha?” 

“I remember there’s a bunch of other shit involved, like that progesterone.” 

“Well.”

Kenny squeezed Cartman’s rapidly perspiring hand. “Well, what?” 

“That’s really just a precaution. Turns out I’m, uh, not as low as they thought I’d be.” Cartman clucked his tongue. “I really am half-and-half. On all accounts.” 

It took Kenny a moment to compute the implication. “Won’t your alpha half screw things up?”

Cartman popped his shoulders in a jerky shrug. “Possibly. But it’s a completely separate system. It’s why I’ll still have ruts, even if my heats’ll be on hold. Like, I could be pregnant and still knock you up, in theory.” 

The hypothetical made Kenny’s stomach flutter. He didn’t dwell on it, lest he open a can of presentation dysphoria insofar shut tight, but something else came to mind in his hunt for a new train of thought. “What about Wendy? Her testosterone caused problems.” 

“Because it didn’t have anywhere else to go. She’s female. Everything got funneled into her vagina.” 

“Eric--” 

“I’m just saying!” 

A million more concerns assaulted Kenny’s mind. He wasn’t used to being the pragmatist; it gave him a headache. “But our baby--” 

Cartman’s breath hitched at the possessive terminology. "That’s why I’m on the hormones, to be safe. I don’t buy it’s a magic cure-all, though. The doctor sugarcoats everything. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have any business. But it should keep my ruts from screwing shit up.” 

“Will it maintain a healthy gestational environment?” 

“Where’d you hear that?” 

“Some dumb magazine I read after you kicked me out.” 

Cartman’s expression darkened. “Look, about that--” 

“It was better I wasn’t there,” Kenny said, sparing Cartman from an awkward apology. “I would’ve been a mess. I’m sorry you had to do it alone.” 

“Some things I do best solo,” Cartman said. “Helps me keep a clear head. It’s not your fault.” He propped his chin in his unoccupied palm. “Now tell me about this dumb magazine.” 

Kenny rolled his eyes. “You woulda got a kick out of it. It was called Beta Parenting. There was this article on how to be the perfect slave to your pregnant alpha or something.” 

Cartman did a doubletake. “Really?” 

“No, but that was the gist.” Kenny unlatched their hands and trotted his forefingers up Cartman’s arm. “I’m supposed to submit myself to you. Letcha step on my balls and shit.” 

“You already submit to me,” Cartman scoffed. 

“I’ve never let you step on my balls.”

“I step on your balls every single day. Metaphorically, symbolically--”

Kenny curled his hand around Cartman’s jaw. Cartman’s skin was even hotter than usual, therefore positively scorching. “I read something else, too, about pregnant omegas. How to take care of you when you’re all shaky and bawlbagging.”

Cartman shuddered at Kenny’s touch, the temperate contrast akin to an ice pack. “Sounds like a crock of horse shit.” 

“That’s exactly what I thought. Apparently I’m not up to par, either way. It’s too bad I’m a beta male loser.” 

Cartman kissed the inside of Kenny’s wrist, kept his nose there to inhale Kenny’s scent; his heats made him somewhat animalistic. “It works for us. I’m both, you’re neither. We cancel each other out. There’s math in there somewhere.”

“How many schmucks does it take to make a baby?” 

“Two, if they can get their acts together.” Cartman guided Kenny’s hand flat on the table. “Now can we please have a cheesy, romantic dinner? No business, I swear.” 

“Can we do that thing from Lady and the Tramp?”

“Shut up and eat.” 

Kenny didn’t need to be told twice. Cartman’s cooking was phenomenal. Long gone were the days when he foisted worms and dirt on Kenny’s palate; these days he foisted homemade meals based off of recipes hailing all the way from Nebraska, memorized in Liane’s kitchen through taste and osmosis. Family culinary secrets came with a prince, though. It took a very special occasion, or sexual favors, to motivate Cartman to break out the pots and pans. 

Both incentives applied tonight, but Cartman wasn’t in any hurry to redeem his dues. He slipped out the French doors whilst Kenny cleared the table. After soaking the dishes and portioning the leftovers into refrigerated Tupperware, Kenny joined him. 

Kenny was a painter, not an interior designer; as with the rest of the house, Cartman had drafted the back patio. The expansive square of cement was canopied by a wooden pergola hemmed by waist-high masonry, all vined with temperamental ivy. The land beyond unfurled, a field of flowers or snow depending on the season. Winter had been kind this year; rather than suffocate under mountain deluge, tonight the earth hibernated beneath a thin sheet of frost that crackled with every passing breeze.

Cartman reclined on a chaise lounge, emitting the air of a Roman magistrate. He sat forward upon Kenny’s arrival and fed the patio’s cast-iron fire pit, doused the kindling with gasoline, then set it aflame with his gold Zippo. 

Kenny waited till the flames simmered before perching on the foot of the chair. Evenings spent watching the wind stirr the distant grasses were now few and far between. He didn’t want to cheapen the affair with pointless conversation, and Cartman seemed to agree. They sat and wordlessly observed half a decade’s worth of marriage and hard work. It still amazed Kenny that they’d made it this far; even more amazing was how much farther they had yet to go. 

“Nice night,” Cartman said, his voice like a flare in the dark. 

“Real nice,” Kenny said. 

“C’mere,” Cartman beckoned. Kenny shimmied between his legs and laid on his chest. Cartman eviscerated the cold air with his beefy arms and amplified body heat. “Crazy, huh?”

Kenny released a long, satisfied sigh. “Yeah.” 

Cartman pressed his lips into Kenny’s damp hair. “We did it, though. We showed them.” 

“Who’s them?” 

“Everybody. My mom, your parents, the guys. They all thought we were nuts when we got married.” 

“They didn’t think we were nuts. Young and stupid, maybe.” 

“You give people too much credit. You’re too damn generous. If it weren’t for me, you’d be absolving sins and writing checks for every poor schlub that came your way.” 

An old memory resurfaced. Two years ago at a Denver gallery Kenny had spotted a starving artist on the sidewalk from his balconied, bourgeois vantage point. This was back when he and Cartman were on the fritz, when he didn’t know whether he’d still be calling himself Kenny Cartman come morning. He’d so badly wanted to discard the trappings of his new life, a life half-lived without Cartman by his side--he’d have given that starving artist a check, if he’d had the chance. Thankfully things worked out differently. The difference between now and then was so staggering Kenny couldn’t help but laugh. 

“What’s so funny?” Cartman asked. 

“Nothing,” Kenny snickered. “I’m thinking.” 

“It’ll melt your brain if you think too much. You’re not a thinker, Ken. You’re a feeler.” 

“I’m feeling pretty good.” 

“Me too. Hey, I got us something.” 

Kenny lifted his head. “What is it?” 

Cartman leaned to the side and picked up a small cedar box. “Just a little something to celebrate.” 

Kenny rose off Cartman’s chest and crossed his legs. Cartman placed the box in his lap; he flipped its metal clasp and opened the lid. Fragrant tobacco wafted upward, sourced from a row of fat cigars. 

He looked up, eyes narrowed. “You promised you were done smoking.” 

“I am,” Cartman said, fishing again--he’d probably hidden the goods while his pasta boiled-- and righted with a bottle of scotch in hand. “After tonight I’m done for real. This’ll be my last opportunity to smoke. Or drink.” He twisted the scotch open. “So I’m doing both.” 

“I guess...,” Kenny said. 

“C’mon,” Cartman goaded. “Don’t be a pussy. Y’need me to dare you?”

Verbal castigation sufficed. Kenny tilted his head back. Cartman upended the bottle over his mouth; he drank until Cartman pulled away, the liquid diminished to the bottleneck’s base. 

“Damn,” Kenny gasped, his throat incinerated. “That’s some good shit.” 

Cartman swished a gulp of his own. “Cost near three hundred bucks.”

“Eric!” 

“Oh, it’s not like we can’t afford it. You aren’t pinching pennies no more, sweetheart. Anyway, this is cheap. Topshelf stuff goes for thousands. That’s when they brew it wearing kilts and playing bagpipes and everything.” 

Kenny peered at the cigars. “How much were these?” 

“Same ballpark. Don’t worry about it.” 

Cartman pocketed the scotch in the V of his crotch, plucked a cigar and nipped its cap which thunked into the wooden box with a muted thud. His gold Zippo provided equal decorum, sizzling the cigar’s foot even and smooth. 

Kenny lit a cigar for himself. Velvet smoke pooled in his mouth. He let it filter between his lips the way Cartman had taught him years ago, revealing Cartman’s hooded stare. 

The sight of him puffing preliminary drags dressed in his stupid Mafia tracksuit was far too arousing. Cigar clenched between his teeth, face reddened further by the flickering fire, his broad torso encompassing the entire width of the chaise lounge. He looked manly and sexy and indomitable like the paragon of strength Kenny knew him to be. That magazine had him all wrong. The entire world had him all wrong. Cartman had himself all wrong, too. The notion that pregnancy would do anything besides indurate his inner fortitude was a fallacy. 

“You’re thinking again,” Cartman accused. 

“Just looking,” Kenny corrected. 

Cartman turned to the horizon, palming his stomach.

Kenny leaned forward. “Is it bad?” 

“No,” Cartman dismissed. 

Kenny climbed down to haunches, unzipped Cartman’s jacket and palpated underneath his t-shirt. “Relax,” he said when Cartman sent a quizzical glance. “Have another drink.” 

Cartman nursed his scotch and cigar. Kenny’s cigar sat pendulous between his fingers, forgotten in favor of massaging Cartman’s cramped abdomen with his other hand. Odd to think this routine act of comfort now implied a larger function; odder still to consider Cartman wasn’t on birth control, that his heat’s intended purpose would be fulfilled tonight if they were lucky. 

“Kenny,” Cartman said.

Kenny looked up. “Do you need to go inside?” 

Cartman exhaled a plume of smoke, cloaking himself from view. “I’m not ready yet.” 

The knot in his pants and smell of slick in the air said otherwise. Kenny declined to comment, busy kneading Cartman’s flesh hot and doughy as leavened bread. Cartman relaxed under his ministrations, emitting small grunts at particularly tight spots.

Kenny’s fingers itched south. He lifted the waistband of Cartman’s pants. Warm musk spilled as if he’d opened an oven, which he had, in a way--a baby oven. “I think you’re ready.” 

Cartman batted his hand. The elastic snapped shut. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Hmph.” Kenny pressed his ear on Cartman’s conceptive conch shell. He imagined that if he listened really hard he could hear the blood rushing in Cartman’s knot and the slick pooling in Cartman’s butt. “I dunno...” 

Cartman tapped his cigar. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking again.”

A brick of ash shattered in Kenny’s half-frozen hair. “Well--” 

“Oh, Christ. What about?” 

“How I’m gonna fuck a baby in you.” 

“That’s great. Way to set the mood, Ken.” 

“I’m gonna make love to you,” Kenny revised. “We’re gonna make a baby out of love.” 

“I hope you don’t talk the whole night. You’re an awful poet.” 

Kenny stuck his tongue out and lathed Cartman’s tented knot, establishing his modus operandi. 

“Fuck--” Cartman widened his legs on instinct. “Fuck, Kenny.” 

“Let’s go inside,” Kenny petitioned. “Let’s go inside and make a baby.” 

Fear flashed across Cartman’s face. “I’m not ready.” 

“Hey,” Kenny said. “Who knows you best?” 

“You do,” Cartman instantly replied. 

“Better than anybody?” 

Cartman picked the ash out of Kenny’s hair. His fingertips lingered and drifted towards Kenny’s sinewy shoulders. “Yeah.” 

“Damn right. I wouldn’t lie to you. I wouldn’t make you do something you ain’t ready for. How long did I wait to ask you out, huh?” 

“Long time.” 

“Four years. Four years after I took your virginity at Stark’s we finally went steady.” 

“Except we broke up and you went to rehab right after,” Cartman countered. 

“Same difference,” Kenny said. “How about when we got engaged? I waited to propose till I knew you wouldn’t run off.”

“It wasn’t because of that. It was because we didn’t have the money. We couldn’t afford a wedding.” 

“We didn’t have money then, either. That’s not the point. The point is I’ve waited for you before, Eric. And I’d wait for this baby. But we don’t need to wait. Because you’re ready.” 

“Nobody’s ever ready to have a kid.” 

“But you want one, don’tcha?”

“Yes. You know that.” 

“That’s it, then. This is it.” 

Cartman tossed his cigar into the fire. “Okay.” 

Kenny disposed of his cigar in the same manner, then stood and lifted the fire pit’s snuffer lid. The flames settled with a petulant curl, voiding the patio of warmth and light. Eyes not yet adjusted, he struggled to discern Cartman through the dark, but Cartman sought him out easily enough. They had found each other in depths much darker than this, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've modeled cartman's medical stuff after information about pcos pregnancies. all of my research is rudimentary at best so take it all with a grain of salt. here's some sources 
> 
> https://www.healthline.com/health/serum-progesterone#procedure
> 
> https://www.healthline.com/health/pregnancy/pcos#risks-for-moms
> 
> https://www.pcosaa.org/pcos-pregnancy-and-delivery-complications/
> 
> https://www.nichd.nih.gov/health/topics/pcos/more_information/FAQs/pregnancy


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nervous about this one so lemme know if it hits right.
> 
> at the very end you'll see i incorporated some more music i highly recommend listening along for the full effect

Moonlight ribboned across their bed and cast a black rectangle on the floor. They stepped off its edge onto the mattress. Cartman collapsed supine; Kenny knelt above. 

Neither knew who surrendered first. Certain if not confident, they came together with a patient grace that bespoke their age and experience. Kenny slowed his breathing for Cartman’s sake, demonstrated how to pace a beating heart; Cartman concentrated his solid hands along Kenny’s skin, quelled the clinging chill with externalized warmth. 

“Eric,” Kenny whispered, tautened within Cartman’s grasp. 

Cartman shuffled up against the headboard and began divesting his clothes. Tracksuit tangled with Kenny’s t-shirt and sweatpants on the floor, his burgeoning knot protruded between his thighs, the underside of his balls glistening with slick. Normally this was when he would pull Kenny onto his cock, impale himself on Kenny’s, or ordain any number of alternative positions--but tonight he merely sagged into the pillows, relinquishing all control.

The lack of stage direction gave Kenny pause. “Knot first?” 

“Sure,” Cartman said.

Kenny kissed his sweaty forehead. “Y’gotta move, baby.” 

“Ugh. Where?” 

“Just lend me a hand.” 

“You’re not funny.” Cartman prodded Kenny’s side. “Turn around, momma.” 

Kenny obliged. Cartman braced his palm on Kenny’s back. His other hand pressed between Kenny’s ass cheeks, covered in his own slick. No lube was necessary during heats. Kenny briefly thought they should probably stock up before long, unsure how rut-exclusive sex would differ from their historically dichotomous trysts. 

Cartman’s middle finger slipped into his asshole, effectively giving him the bird from the inside out. “Stop thinking, Ken, for the last time.” 

“Okay,” Kenny wheezed. Cartman added a second finger without preamble. “Oh--shit!”

“‘M not playing around,” Cartman stated. 

“Sh’yeah, I can feel that!” 

“Quit talking.” 

Kenny clamped his mouth shut, misinterpreting Cartman’s reprimand as a ban on all noise. Cartman didn’t like that, so he squeezed in a third finger. Kenny’s body folded in half on its own accord, chagrined at the intrusion. He caught himself on his hands, his jaw unhinging with a high-pitched cry. 

Cartman pulled out to the first knuckle. “Breathe, sweetheart.” 

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay--” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes!” Kenny wiggled his hips, knowing from experience it was easier to, “Just get on with it--” 

Cartman resumed at a brutal pace. Kenny never minded being his whipping boy. The same exception which applied to pranks and dares in boyhood also applied to sex in adulthood. The abuse was delivered with good intentions; all Kenny had to do was say the name of his favorite--or, alternatively, Cartman’s most hated--comedic actor, and the jig would be up. But he didn’t often utilize the eject button, proud to be the only person capable of taking everything Cartman could dish out. 

Cartman removed his fingers. Kenny chuffed at the loss. His arms began wobbling, palms sore from holding his weight. He turned around and supported himself on Cartman’s wide shoulders instead. 

“You taking your time for any particular reason?” 

“Very particular,” Cartman said, wiping his hand off on Kenny’s thigh.

Kenny kissed the pucker in his brow smooth. “We can take long as you need.” 

“Not really.” 

Even so, Cartman guided Kenny onto his engorged cock in patient increments. Kenny forced himself loose-limbed, his body oppositional to the unnatural stretch. Cartman inhaled on his exhales, sharing a bated breath till he nodded assent. Cartman hitched another centimeter into him, the entire stop-and-go process anointed with copious amounts of slick and determination. 

Kenny flexed his hips, his wrists slung around Cartman’s shoulders, his legs tucked on either side of Cartman’s thighs. They’d attempted countless configurations since Cartman’s presentation presented itself, but face-to-face contortion allowed the most structural integrity. Cartman scaffolded Kenny’s waist in his arm and massaged Kenny’s trembling flank, all the while dropping kisses and whispers of encouragement.

“‘M good,” Kenny sniffed, skewered to the hilt. 

"Whew,” Cartman sighed. His lips curled in a salacious grin. “Y’wanna put on a movie?” 

“This ain’t gonna last two whole hours.” 

“What’s the record? You’d know better than me.” 

Kenny didn’t know, actually. Time ceased to exist when Cartman knotted him. Or rather time existed in transience, immeasurably long. It kind of made him claustrophobic--Cartman’s dick flared at the base, irremovable lest Kenny sacrifice his colon yanking it out--which was why he never did this lying down. He felt awkward and insufficient, a beta pretending to be an omega. Sitting upright furnished the illusion that he still had some dignity left, that his backbone wasn’t just a green, malleable stalk at the mercy of Cartman’s more powerful whims. 

But Cartman deserved more credit than that. He wasn’t one-hundred percent alpha. Kenny wouldn’t have been able to handle him senselessly knot-minded, lacking the prescience to accommodate his beta handicap. If he was going to be used and abused he wanted it be on his terms, not due to some half-brained biological precedent he literally couldn’t fulfill. Stan might put up with that shit for Wendy’s sake, might even enjoy it, but Kenny wasn’t so much of a martyr or masochist as to relegate himself to Cartman’s untempered control. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” Cartman brushed let go of his hip and brushed his hair back, hand landing at the nape of his neck. “You alright?” 

“Yeah,” Kenny muttered, blinking his thoughts away. “Gimme a second.” 

An untimely deluge of cum spurted into his ass. “Fuck,” Cartman hissed. “I can’t help it--” 

“It’s not your fault,” Kenny choked, jizz sliding down his taint. “I’ll be fine.” 

Every rut they had this conversation. The first load of cum was always the worst, the second better, however many after that tolerable. None of it was necessarily enjoyable for Kenny. He wasn’t built to be knotted--but he was built to love Cartman down to his bones. This was simply an additional facet of his servitude, performed out of necessity with begrudging affection, same as cleaning the kitchen after Cartman cooked, or giving Cartman a blowjob when the Broncos won, or watching Cartman go off gallivanting in the night armed with a pistol and knife. He minded, but didn’t mind that he minded, which was the simplest definition of marital compromise. For the sake of their relationship and his own sanity Kenny chose not to examine its underlying paradox. 

He leaned into Cartman’s chest at a forty-five degree angle. Given the geometry, Cartman’s rate of ejaculation, and intercessory fertility drugs, he presumed they’d be tethered for another fifteen minutes, a comparatively short lockdown. 

Kenny was an awful mathematician. Fifteen minutes came--thrice, to be exact--and went without reprieve. Cartman unwound, expunged, whilst Kenny wound up, encumbered. He pressed his forehead into Cartman’s shoulder panting staccato breaths, his burning backside stoking the flames in his lower back and kneecaps. 

“Eric,” he moaned.

“Shhh.” Cartman’s exhalation fanned across Kenny’s temple, stirred his hair. “You’re doing great, Ken.” 

The praise birthed newfound resolve. Kenny swiveled his hips clockwise, igniting a flare of pain throughout his naval made worthwhile when Cartman gasped, vocal chords thinned reedy and breathless. 

Kenny repeated the twist. His efforts were rewarded by another geyser that’d put Old Faithful to shame. Cum globbed past his rim, his anal tract irrefutably impacted to the point of abdominal cramps. He sucked in a breath through his nose, teeth gritted against the uncomfortable sensation which became mildly pleasant the more his lower half went numb. 

Cartman’s knot pulsated then stilled, momentarily dormant. Kenny’s cheeks puffed with release. “You’re loaded tonight.” 

“It’s the drugs,” Cartman said, head lolled backwards. Unlike full-blooded alphas he never felt the need to piledrive Kenny into the mattress. Driven by physical rather than psychological release, he simply sat back and let his knot do all the work, focused more on comforting Kenny than claiming him.“I’m fuckin' doped up. Call me Lance Armstrong.” 

Half-baked and lazy as they were, Kenny preferred his ruts to the real deal, especially when Cartman was otherwise even-keeled and characteristically lethargic. “I like it,” he said, and squeezed around Cartman’s knot. 

Cartman hissed. “Kenny, princess, momma--” He blabbered every pet name he knew, invented more on the fly. “‘M gonna--” 

“Give it to me, poppa,” Kenny said, empowered by the way Cartman was looking at him wide-eyed and awestruck, the same expression he’d worn for the past fifteen-odd years since they first had sex in the back of Kenny’s pickup at Stark’s Pond. “I can take it--” 

Cartman grasped a fistful of Kenny’s ass cheek, his wedding ring an icy brand, and stabbed his cock upward. He cummed and cummed and cummed some more, voiceless for one miraculous moment, the squelch of their conjoined bodies stealing any possibility of coherent dialogue. His knot wilted in ratio to the ejaculation--Kenny peeled off soon as he was able, separating with a loud pop. Cartman shuffled onto his knees and finished across Kenny’s stomach with a full-body shudder and unrepentant moan.

He flicked his hand, sending the excess cum coating his fingers to the puddle fountaining between Kenny’s legs. “You’re a trooper, sweetheart.” 

“No big deal,” Kenny mumbled, even though what had just transpired was the most physically taxing thing he was capable of. 

Cartman pulled him close, the last of his rut manifesting in a protective cuddle. “I mean it. I know this isn’t, like, the best for you. Not like it is for me, which, lemme tell you, it’s fucking glorious--” 

“Eric, it’s okay.” 

“You sure? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure you’d let me cut off your dick if I asked real nice.” 

“I wouldn’t keep doing this if it wasn’t worth it.” 

“But is it worth it for you personally, regardless of my own benefit?”

Kenny grimaced as his body ejected the unneeded seed pent up inside of him. “Your benefits are my benefits.” 

Cartman scraped his bangs off his forehead, drawing a trail of perspiration from his brow to his hairline. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are we talking about insurance policies or sex?” 

This rigmarole triggered serious bouts of deja vu. It’d be touching if Cartman didn’t insist on engaging such deliberations every cycle. Cognitive functions impeded by the distracting ache in his ass, Kenny struggled to remember his script. “I don’t got all this stuff building up inside of me till I explode like you do.” 

“That doesn’t matter. You aren’t obligated to be my cum dump, Kenny--” 

“You clearly fucking need it, dude. And maybe I don’t, but I need to give it to you.” 

“But--” 

Kenny pressed a finger to Cartman’s lips. “Shut up. You take care of me literally all the time. This is my turn to take care of you. I get that isn’t easy when you’re in the alpha zone or whatever, but deal with it.” 

Except Cartman was steadily exiting alpha zone, omega zone approaching full speed ahead. His eyelids drooped as he lathed the underside of Kenny’s finger. Kenny gave him another. He suckled on both, cheeks hallowed, drool beginning to dribble down his chin, and nodded. 

Kenny swallowed. “It ain’t easy. It’s not fun. No, stop, relax,” he admonished when Cartman made to release his fingers and, God forbid, speak. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s just--it’s you. I want all of you, okay? Everything.”

Cartman’s lips parted. Kenny replaced his fingers with his mouth before any sound fell out. Maybe that’s why Cartman always brought this up, he thought, for reassurance during the interlude between dominance and submission, to make sure that both sides of himself were safe to reveal. Cartman dodged another kiss, turning his head to mask the unspoken gratitude written across his features. 

“Oh, stop it.” Kenny nosed his jaw until he came out of hiding. “You think I’d let just anybody knot me?” 

Cartman stroked Kenny’s asshole in feather-light passes. “Over my dead body.” 

Arousing aftershocks zapped down Kenny’s spine, leftover cum gushing between Cartman’s fingers. Kenny rolled his ass against Cartman’s fingertips, chasing the feeling, his cock cranked to half-hardness. “Hey, uh. Maybe we should get back on schedule.” 

Cartman grinned. “Are you that bored?” 

“Eric!”

“Alright, alright, I’m going.” 

Cartman puttered into the en suite to fetch a wet rag, his leaky backside glittering in the moonlight. The mattress dipped under his knees when he returned. Kenny rolled onto his stomach, cushioning his head in his arms, and spread his legs to give Cartman access therein. 

Like any other deliverance of pain, the best part of being knotted was the aftercare. Kenny held onto the nearest pillow for support, his thickening cock scraping heavily across the sheets.

The rag plopped to the floor, replaced by Cartman’s warm hands. “Y’like that, Ken?” 

Kenny shivered. “Uh-huh.” 

Cartman bracketed Kenny with his body, delivered a slow, sensual kiss--and promptly keeled over. 

Kenny snapped upward. “Whoa, hey! What’s wrong?” 

“What’s wrong? I’m ovulating in goddamn overdrive, that’s what’s wrong!” 

Kenny titled Cartman’s head back, not surprised his pupils were dilated. “That dope got you all outta sorts?” 

Cartman shrugged, glancing away. His knot was like a stopgap; once it deflated his heat kicked into full gear. Given the drugs he took earlier, Kenny presumed the transition wasn’t very comfortable. He trailed his hand downward, seeking the web of slick beneath Cartman’s softened knot. Cartman yelped and squeezed his thighs together, stilling Kenny’s hand. They stared at each other through the evening’s tempered blue-gray.

“Last chance to back out,” Kenny said. 

Cartman’s throat bobbed. “Come here.” 

Kenny crawled forward. Cartman grasped his hips, positioned them in line with his face, and took his cock into his mouth. 

“Oh,” Kenny breathed. 

He placed one hand on Cartman’s shoulder, nestled his other into Cartman’s soft brown hair. Cartman eased backwards, fisted Kenny’s base and worked his tongue over Kenny’s head. Kenny willed his hips to quit twitching forward, not wanting to face-fuck the father of his soon-to-be-conceived child. Cartman wasn’t so concerned; he swallowed Kenny down to the hilt, reached around and curled his fingertips against Kenny’s wrecked asshole. He didn’t even press inside, but it was enough to inspire a spurt of pre-cum on his tongue. 

“Eric, poppa, slow down,” Kenny begged, threatening to dissolve under Cartman’s tongue. Another detriment to being a beta was Cartman’s ridiculous libido--were Kenny an alpha or omega he’d share a similar endurance; as it was, they only had one shot at this and he didn’t want to waste it on a blowjob, no matter how amazing. Cartman continued sucking his soul out of his dick, deaf to his protestations, slurping the taste of his own slick and Kenny’s pre-cum. In a last ditch effort, Kenny gouged his nails into Cartman’s shoulder. “Alpha!” 

His cock slipped from Cartman’s mouth, threading a string of saliva that broke when Cartman looked up, consternated. “A little more, just lemme--” 

Kenny soothed the tense line of his shoulders. “Lay down.” 

Cartman slumped onto his back in an uncharacteristically quick surrender and spread his legs. His asshole flickered angry and inflamed, waves of translucent slick pouring down his thighs. Kenny delicately circumvented his flaccid knot and inserted three braided fingers, knowing he could take it. He opened willingly, arching his back at the intrusive balm. Kenny curled his fingers to gauge the state of his swollen prostate, its size an indication of how far his heat had progressed; the adjacent gland stimulated a new outpouring of slick, signaling nature’s call. 

His hole retained its dilation to make way for insemination as Kenny departed, beset with a sudden influx of nerves. “Eric, look at me.” 

Cartman lifted his head, face drawn in dazed bemusement. “What’s wrong?” 

Kenny sagged with relief. “Nothing, sorry, I just--” 

“Just what?” 

Kenny’s eyes watered. “Um...” 

Cartman’s feverish haze parted to reveal a sharp glint of conviction. He sat up, instantly impervious to his body’s demands. He’d stop the Earth’s orbit if Kenny asked; a heat was nothing. 

“No, no, no--” Kenny sniffed, his hands fluttering around Cartman’s sides. “It’s stupid, I’m sorry, forget it--lay down, it’s okay--” 

Cartman batted him away. His emergency reserve of patience wasn’t well-stocked. “If you need more time to get your shit together, go get a condom. I could wait another fucking year--” 

“My shit’s together,” Kenny vowed. He illustrated his shit’s togetherness by grasping the underside of Cartman’s knees, and yanked him horizontal. 

Cartman peered over the fleshy valleys of his torso. “Then what’s your problem? I’m literally, currently, physically dying to know.” 

Kenny sucked in a breath, collecting his composure. “We’re, like...we’re doing this. We’re really doing this.” 

Cartman tapped Kenny’s ankle with his heel. “Don’t be weird about it.”

Kenny flicked his hair out of his face, exhaled. “Don’t be weird, got it. I’ll just put my penis in your butt, and, uh, yeah--”

“Princess--”

“One baby, coming right up--”

“Oh, for God’s sake--” Cartman locked his legs around Kenny’s waist and wrenched him forward.

Kenny rested his chin in the valley of Cartman’s ample chest. Cartman’s face was awash in a vibrant red burn, eyes clouded and bright and narrowed inquisitively. He reached up, framed Kenny’s jaw, and jabbed a kiss at Kenny’s mouth. Kenny knocked their temples together, felt the heat wafting off Cartman’s skin. Cartman grasped the back of his neck and distracted him with another kiss, rolling his hips up to introduce his decommissioned knot to Kenny’s nervous dick. Kenny took deep breath that Cartman promptly stole and matched him with a downward stroke. 

Cartman plopped back to the pillows, his hair splayed in feathery chunks molded by sweat. Kenny capitalized on the column of his throat, earnestly grinding him now, their heavy breathing punctuated by sliding skin and rustling sheets. 

The heady scent of slick permeated the room. Kenny notched the crown of his head beside Cartman’s, glanced upside down at their conjoined bodies, observed how his washboard torso flattened Cartman’s fat which then rose back up in the space between them. He pumped his throbbing shaft still moistened by Cartman’s slick and saliva, angling himself so that the tip painted swirls of pre-cum across Cartman’s belly. Cartman mouthed the shell of his ear, held his name in the back of his throat, let it fall apart to wordless vocalizations as it rolled off his tongue. 

Kenny shivered at the want in his voice. Cartman didn’t need an alpha. He didn’t need an omega. He didn’t need anything. He was a self-made man who made his own rules and ruled the world by them, biological precedents be damned. Meeting his needs was a non-issue because he had none; it was accepting the fact he wanted Kenny that Kenny struggled with. Kenny had predicted, in theory, it would be tough--when he proposed at twenty-five, took Cartman’s virginity at seventeen, and first recognized the extent of his feelings for his scrappy, annoying best friend at twelve. He’d had a lifetime to prepare himself for the brunt of Cartman’s love, but in practice it was impossible to conceptualize. 

Yet out of all that Cartman had taught him the biggest lesson was that thought garnered no results. Introspection hadn’t inspired Kenny to shed his muteness as a child, lifted him from the recesses of addiction, nor motivated him to bend on one knee, and it served no purpose here. 

Kenny stopped thinking. He lowered his body atop Cartman’s, flesh to heated flesh, and crawled down the bed. Cartman chased after him, fumbling for locks of his hair; once they trailed out of reach he palpated his own skin, desperate to quell the internal ache that could only be abated within, moaning, “It hurts, Kenny--” 

“I know, baby.” Kenny righted onto his knees, resuming his initial position between Cartman’s legs. “I’m right here. I’m gonna make it all better.” 

Slick pooled on the sheets beneath them, the dark shadow exacerbated by Kenny’s dribbling cock. Cartman’s weeping asshole contracted, seeking fulfillment. Kenny steadied himself in his hand, lowered his other to Cartman’s tense flank, and breeched Cartman without thought, operating not on hormonally-induced impulses but those of love. 

Cartman’s jaw cracked with a guttural moan of relief. Kenny grasped his thighs, angled his pelvic floor upwards, his prostate ballooned to painful dimensions, his stomach bunched in delicious rolls. He cried out at every stab, bearing down against the overwhelming sensation. Kenny gritted his teeth, working further, farther. Slick funneled around his cock as he clipped past Cartman’s prostate and gland, easing his passage toward Cartman’s cervix. 

“Do it,” Cartman gasped. “Do it, Ken--fuck me--” 

Kenny rolled his hips, trembling, hair swinging loose around his shoulders, balls slapping wetly against Cartman’s ass. He curled forward, dug deeper, desperate to kiss Cartman, it didn’t matter where. His lips landed at the junction between Cartman’s jiggly tits; he buried his nose in the supple skin, tonguing wiry chest hair. Cartman wrapped his arms around his shoulders, embracing him inside and out, trapping him as effectively as he’d done with his knot. 

Slick squirted onto the bed, followed by air expelled by the return of Kenny’s cock. “Eric,” Kenny panted. “Eric, Eric, Eric--” He twisted his head, Cartman’s heartbeat thundering against his ear in time with his own. 

Cartman smoothed his palms down his back and clutched his ass, forcing him deeper. “Fuck me--put a baby in me--fill me up, Ken, c’mon--” 

“Nghh--” Kenny widened his gait, knees burning with friction, desperate to obey. 

The resistance he normally encountered, whether Cartman was in heat or not thanks to birth control, crumbled to nothing. He buried himself deeper than he ever had before, crossing an unknown line; Cartman’s flesh tapered and squeezed and convexed and blossomed, swallowing his cock into the sequestered well of his womb. 

Cartman abruptly froze. Kenny paused, gaining his new bearings. He husked Cartman’s arms, rose onto his elbows, suctioned his lips around each of Cartman’s nipples, kissed a path up Cartman’s clavicle, drank the sweat from the depression at the base of Cartman’s throat. He fisted the sheets for leverage, shuffling higher, planting himself deeper, his spine stretched in an uncomfortable, overextended line. His lips met Cartman’s in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, but they weren’t kissing so much as gnawing each other. 

Cartman slowly reanimated, bucking his hips. It seemed as if every nerve ending in his body had rerouted toward his womb, for each movement he made created a domino effect that rippled down Kenny’s cock. Kenny shuddered with the totality of it, Cartman likewise quivering beneath him. They breathed and moaned and writhed, pressing closer and closer to one another as if they could meld into one being.

“Eric,” Kenny grunted. “Eric, I’m--I’m--” Tears sprouted at the corners of his eyes. “God, I love you--I love you--” 

Cartman wiped his tears, kissed his wobbling lip, quicker to recover; he was made for this, after all. “I love you too,” he murmured. “You’re doing so good.” 

“You’re good,” Kenny insisted, abashed that Cartman felt compelled to coddle him now of all times. “You’re too good for me--” 

“Don’t say that,” Cartman demanded, his tone momentarily regaining its standard timbre. “Shut up and look at me.” 

Kenny nodded hurriedly, staring at Cartman through a lattice of tangled, sweaty hair; Cartman combed it behind his ears, looking at him with so much trust and devotion that Kenny wanted to close his eyes. But he couldn’t, because his alpha told him not to, because his omega told him not to; he was a blank slate, neutral in either respect, and therefore that much more susceptible to Cartman’s dualistic bidding. 

It wasn’t the tight warmth of Cartman’s uterus that sent Kenny over the edge, nor the undulations Cartman performed to wring his cock, but rather the look in Cartman’s eyes. Kenny latched onto it, face unattractively contorted, teeth bared, nose scrunched, and unloaded his seed into Cartman’s fertile womb. 

Cartman cradled Kenny to his chest, gasping senseless benedictions. Kenny responded in kind, each tremor more punishing than the last. The aftermath of his climax became audibly apparent, his twitchy convulsions pulling globs of cum and slick from Cartman’s asshole. He released a shaky exhale, sacrificing more oxygen than his lungs could currently replenish, and prepared to disengage when Cartman’s arms tightened around him. 

“Stay,” Cartman whispered. 

Kenny’s knees and back were killing him, and if his cock remained entrenched for much longer he feared it’d disintegrate. He settled down regardless. The head of his cock slipped free from Cartman’s cervix; Cartman clenched his shaft to hold him in place, silencing his overstimulated mewl with a kiss. Kenny surrendered to his post-coital cuddling, lazily reciprocating affections until Cartman finally, gently deposited him onto his side. 

Cartman cupped his hand underneath his crotch and curled his knees up to his chest. Kenny blinked once, twice, three times, before realizing that Cartman was ensuring none of his sperm leaked out. 

The knowledge of what they’d accomplished, or at the very least intended to accomplish, came crashing down all at once. He popped onto his palms, head swimming. His gaze swept over Cartman, to the seeping mess of their shared bodily fluids, to the moonlight draped across the floorboards.

“Ken,” Cartman said. 

A breeze buffeted the windowpane, Mittens scratched at the door; the Earth resumed its orbit. Kenny looked back at Cartman. 

“You alright?” Cartman asked. 

“Yeah.” 

“Positive?” 

“I’m not just positive, I’m--” 

“Steal my material, and I’ll have Broflovski send you a cease and desist.” 

Kenny smirked. “How d’you feel?” 

“Good,” Cartman shrugged. “Tired. Gross.” 

“I’m pretty gross too,” Kenny said. Popular culture always made heats out to be glamorous events trussed in gossamer hues. In reality they were downright gnarly, the evidence exhibited in ruined sheets, limp dicks, and plundered assholes, not at all the flowery, romantic atmosphere Cartman deserved. Kenny felt as if he should make a speech, but he wasn’t exactly a flowery, romantic orator. “Um, so. That was...cool.” 

Cartman rolled his eyes. “The coolest.” He uncoiled his legs and spread his arms. “C’mere, princess.” 

Kenny laid down and folded his leg between Cartman’s thighs. Cartman pressed against the point of contact, smearing secretions along Kenny’s skin; Kenny took the opportunity to unfurl his tongue past Cartman’s parted lips. He returned Cartman’s embrace, holding him together should he fall apart. But Cartman remained steadfast and stalwart as ever, an expert exorcist of his own emotions. 

Their chests rose and fell in a slow, synchronized rhythm. Kenny was the first to surrender. He lowered his head to Cartman’s shoulder and closed his eyes, lethargy making way for a full-body ache. Tangled in his tailbone, it bled to his heart and throughout his limbs, fizzing in a muted tingle. It was a good kind of pain, meaningful and worthwhile; he sank into its velvety depths, buoyed by Cartman’s encompassing presence. 

He resurfaced alone and shivering. Sweat clung to his skin in a mildewy film. He rolled onto his back, eying the dark ghost impressed in the mattress by Cartman’s vacant weight, and sat up to find the mess between his thighs had been swiped clean. 

His backside twinged in protest as he rose to his feet. He passed a hand through his tangled hair, gave his cock a little job-well-done pat for all its hard work, then strode toward the window to air out the bedroom. The cold breeze exacerbated the chill in his bones, yet cloyed his ass pleasantly as he turned toward the bathroom. 

He climbed into the shower and rinsed what Cartman could not wipe away. Muck had collected in the cracks of his skin, dried to a crust in his pubes. Palm braced on the wall, he reached behind and fingered himself, scraping any remaining goop out of his asshole. Water cascaded down his protracted shoulder blades and slipped between his ass cheeks, carrying the excess fluids to the drain. He pressed his forehead against his forearm, releasing a breath which fogged the misty glass. His stomach jumped as he scissored his fingers, testing the width of the gape Cartman’s knot eviscerated. 

“Mmgh--” His throat seized. His nostrils flared. The water temperature seemed to multiply. Kenny glanced down through the wet hair plastered across his face unsure whether he could muster another erection. His cock pulsed, too exhausted to firm up. Knowing it’d end in unsatisfactory disappointment, he chanced a forth digit, wrist uncomfortably angled. His channel spasmed and bore down; he pushed onward, crying out upon locating his prostate. His feet skittered across the tile. He burrowed his heels and recalled Cartman’s command to fertilize him, the sensual clench of his cervix, unlocking the vault of his womb. 

A weak spurt of pre-cum oozed out of his cock. Kenny watched the pearly dollop plop to the tile and get washed away. Curling hazardous passes over his prostate, his inner flesh sensitive and chafed, he imagined Cartman holding him, whispering in his ear--heavy with child, his stomach distended in a fertile mound, his scant male breast tissue engorged with milk. Physically softened yet tough as nails, taunting and mean, his swollen abdomen contested by his fat alpha knot-- 

Kenny bit into his arm hard enough to reach bone. Tears leaked from his eyes as sparks danced behind his eyelids. His cock bobbed, determined but unable to manifest a boner. A cramp lanced through his contorted palm; he removed his fingers and leaned into the wall, panting with exertion. A carousel of fantasies spun in his mind, unresolved. 

The buzz under his skin had abated by the time he toweled off. The bedroom seeped in cold air, Kenny quickly jumped into a pair of sweatpants and one of Cartman’s crewneck sweatshirts, the fabric sticking to his skin in damp folds. He corralled his hair in a braid, then exited the room in search of his husband. 

His wet feet stamped audible footprints into the floorboards, though the noise was drowned out by a cheesy love ballad emanating from below. Kenny plodded down the staircase, pausing halfway to peer into the dark foyer. 

Dressed in a fresh pair of pajamas, his hair shampoo-soft, Cartman’s shadowy mass blockaded the living room doorway. The windows flanking either side of the front door tossed moonlight onto his countenance, exposing his contemplative frown. 

They worked on opposite schedules. Kenny was always emotional during sex while Cartman reserved his own catharsis until after. Kenny had tried breaking him of the habit for years to no effect. After the first time they boned he found Cartman skipping rocks across Stark’s Pond and crying out his insecurities. Despite the fact Cartman had moved past old hangups, the love and contentment he felt now was still overwhelming enough for him to brood in isolation. 

Kenny skipped the last two steps in a childish leap and utilized the momentum to swing around the banister, completing his approach in an elongated stride. “Hey.” 

Cartman lifted his gaze. “Hey.” 

Kenny forewent mentioning that which was obvious and well understood. He instead looked over Cartman’s shoulder at the stereo system chambered beside the television. Its glowing screen ticked the current track’s playtime--After All by Cher and Peter Cetera. Cartman held a not-so-secret guilty pleasure for sappy love songs, and this was the sappiest of them all. He’d elucidated at length how it befit their relationship to a tee; Kenny was obliged to agree.   
  
_Well, here we are again_  
 _I guess it must be fate_  
 _We've tried it on our own_  
 _But deep inside we've known_  
 _We'd be back to set things straight_

The song stalled with a few piano notes and underlying string section. Cher then joined in: 

_I still remember when_   
_Your kiss was so brand new_   
_Every memory repeats_   
_Every step I take retreats_   
_Every journey always brings me back to you_

Kenny glanced back to find Cartman staring. He broadened his shoulders and held out his palm, lips quirked in a goofy smile. 

“Jesus Christ,” Cartman huffed, as if he hadn’t been waiting for Kenny to extend such a gesture. He slid his hand into Kenny’s and wrapped his other arm around Kenny’s waist.

Kenny guided him back a step into the foyer, before Cartman took the lead and commenced a slow twirl. 

_When love is truly right, it lives from year to year_   
_It changes as it goes and on the way it grows_   
_But it never disappears_

Kenny dipped low and kissed Cartman’s cheek. Cartman snorted, sent them into a pivot, then craned his neck and pressed their lips together. 

“Everything okay?” Kenny murmured. 

Cartman arched an eyebrow. Kenny could see in his eyes he considered playing it off with some witty remark, his personal growth evident in his decision to be honest. “You know how it is,” he said, speaking in an equally hushed tone. “I’m not good with...feelings.” 

“But you’ll listen to this,” Kenny spun them around in time with the song’s baroque crescendo, “on repeat.” 

“It’s a good song,” Cartman said. He gripped Kenny’s waist, reinstating control, and pulled them to a stop in the middle of the foyer. “A banger, as the kids say.” 

Kenny chuckled. They teeter-tottered in place, holding each other’s gaze. Cartman surrendered first, dropping his head to Kenny’s shoulder with a content sigh.

_After all the stops and starts_   
_We keep coming back to these two hearts_   
_Two angels who've been rescued from the fall_   
_After all that we've been through_   
_It all comes down to me and you_   
_I guess it's meant to be_   
_Forever you and me_   
_After all_

Kenny canted his head aside to better observe the man he loved. Nothing needed to be said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ After All - Cher and Peter Cetera](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOk8chooVDs) arguably one of the best love songs of all time imo


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brace urself. fluff incoming

In all their endless preparations Kenny and Cartman had neglected to prepare for the immediate aftermath of Cartman’s heat, the limbo in which they suffered a glaringly inconclusive “did it work or not? Let’s wait and find out!” With no definitive reason to celebrate they found plenty reasons to be terse and irritable. Kenny continued reconfiguring his commissions, Cartman stayed late at the warehouses; they’d reconvene at dinner--Kenny covered in paint, Cartman covered in sawdust--each spend five minutes under the shower, then collapse into bed having barely spoken to each other all day. 

Forbade from booze, smokes, and caffeine, Cartman was a shivering mess of nerves. The slightest misstep set him off. He chucked his coffee in the sink the first morning Kenny gave him decaf opposed to regular, barricaded himself in his office and took his anger out on unwitting buyers, his voice rattling the locked door. 

Kenny found himself combustible, too. One day Mittens plodded onto a carefully-mixed palette and left colorful pawprints all over the studio whilst fleeing Kenny’s vengeful clutches. Once subdued, Kenny dropped her into Cartman’s lap then stormed out to the backyard. He walked so far the mountains sharpened with cold detail, and turned around only when his frozen extremities purpled. 

It was exhausting and depressing and not at all the post-conceptive honeymoon Kenny had imagined. They were father apart than they had been in two years when they were supposed to be closer than ever. But no amount of maturation could stop Cartman from regressing to his ornery past self, nor stop Kenny from rescinding behind his passive-aggressive shell. 

None of it went unnoticed by their friends or psychologist. Cartman brazenly snubbed and Kenny politely ignored everyone’s well-meant yet ill-informed platitudes. There wasn’t anything to do but wait. Especially when Cartman kept postponing taking a test. Kenny didn’t know what a positive would garner and dreaded the hell a negative would bring. All he knew was that he couldn’t survive the interim in this manner, unsure whether they were expecting a baby or simply waiting for Cartman’s next unpredictable cycle. 

Almost a month after Cartman’s heat Stan called to cash in on Kenny’s offer to babysit. Kenny agreed without bothering to consult Cartman. After getting off the phone, he ducked into Cartman’s office to let him know of their uncle obligations. Cartman responded with an affirmative grunt. 

“Did you hear me, Cartman?” Kenny asked, requiring a verbal confirmation. 

“Emily’s coming at six,” Cartman repeated, huddled in his leather chair. A mug of decaf coffee sat steaming on his desk. 

Kenny pushed off the doorjamb. “You gonna be done by then?” 

“I’m never done,” Cartman said. Stock projections were strewn across his computer monitors. He played Wall Street like a gambling machine and played gambling machines like Pac-Man and played Pac-Man like a fiddle, so there wasn’t any risk in his financial ventures besides his own addictive inclinations.

Kenny hooked his chin over the top of Cartman’s chair. The data displayed might as well have been Egyptian hieroglyphics for all he could translate. “Watcha betting on now, horse derby?”

“I don’t have time to give you a seminar on the stock market,” Cartman said, furiously clicking between tabs. 

Kenny snorted. “Imagine that. Economics professor Cartman.” 

“You’re laughing now,” Cartman said. “But just wait.” 

“I’m not, actually.” Kenny forcibly swung Cartman’s chair around. “You been holed up the whole day. Give it a rest.” 

Cartman slumped low, his decaffeinated eyes bloodshot and bagged. “I’m making money.” 

“It ain’t real money,” Kenny said. “It’s nothing but numbers.” 

“Numbers with a fuckload of monetary value. I should’ve been a damn stockbroker. I could’ve been the goddamn Wolf of Wall Street--” Kenny slipped into Cartman’s lap. Cartman leaned back to make room, but kept his hands firmly planted on the armrests. 

“Can’t I just sit with you anymore?” Kenny inquired. 

“There’s a difference between sitting with me and sitting on me,” Cartman said.

Kenny tried for a kiss. Cartman obligingly pucked his lips. There was more romance to be found macking on a sea urchin. 

“Take a break,” Kenny said. “Please.” 

“And do what?” Cartman asked. 

Kenny carted his fingers through Cartman’s greasy bangs. “Spend time with me?” 

“I’m just a terrible husband, aren’t I?” 

“I never said that.” 

“You didn’t refute it, either.” 

“You’re in a terrible mood, but that doesn’t make you a terrible husband.” 

Cartman rolled his eyes. “Just makes me an asshole, right?” 

“Maybe I’ve been an asshole too,” Kenny admitted. 

“More than maybe,” Cartman said. “We’re both assholes.” 

He tucked his arm around Kenny’s waist and swiveled his chair. Kenny watched him logout of his accounts with dizzying complexity. He used a tor browser for everything and leapfrogged between VPNs, all within a Linux system he built from the ground up, whether trading stocks, slinging cryptocurrencies, selling paintings or trafficking Indonesian mail-order brides.

The screens flashed encrypted black. Cartman wheeled away from the desk. “I am open for your perusal, dearest. Do with me what you will.” 

“Let’s take a nap,” Kenny suggested. 

“A nap?” Cartman flipped his phone, laying atop a stack of invoices, face-up. “It’s three in the afternoon.” 

“We got three hours, then,” Kenny said. He hopped to his feet. “Come on, please?” 

“Okay, yeesh.” Cartman stood and stretched his stagnated joints, his soft belly exposed beneath the hem of an awful gangster Loony Tunes t-shirt he purchased as a gag in high school. “Don’t get whiny.” 

Kenny bullied him into their bedroom down the hall. He landed on the bed with a muted huff made louder by Kenny flopping next to him. Forgoing blankets, Kenny scooped him close, making the executive decision to be the big spoon. 

Cartman relented to the brusque cuddling, needier than he let on yet unable to relinquish his sarcasm. “You’re touchy today.” 

“I haven’t touched you in weeks,” Kenny said. 

“We’ve been plenty tactile,” Cartman said. “We just had sex the other--” 

“Nope,” Kenny said. The clinical distribution of pleasure which occurred two nights previous didn’t constitute as sex. “I mean in general. I mean like this.” 

Cartman pulled a lock of Kenny’s hair across his eyes. “Yeah, I know.” 

“It’s okay. We both needed space.” 

“Doesn’t mean we needed to act like dicks.” 

Kenny reclaimed his hair and eye contact. “I’m over acting like a dick.” 

Cartman burrowed deeper into Kenny’s chest. “Me too. It’s not as fun as it used to be.” 

Kenny smiled. “Want me to sing you a lullaby?” 

“No,” Cartman declined. 

“Rock-a-bye baby...,” Kenny began. 

Cartman flicked his forehead. Kenny quieted, set a preemptive alarm for five-thirty. Mittens tottered through the doorway a few minutes later and curled in the small of Cartman’s back; as of late she had been winning the unspoken feud over his attentions, and Kenny was far too happy to assert victory, peppering kisses on the crown of Cartman’s head. 

“Stop fighting with the cat,” Cartman mumbled. 

Kenny glanced down. “Uh--I wasn’t--” 

Without looking up, Cartman used his weight to press Kenny into the mattress. He then snapped at Mittens, who wormed under his outstretched arm. Husband and feline both surrendered to his patriarchal authority. 

A daydream about a blonde and brown-eyed girl started to play in Kenny’s mind. Kenny there to patch her up when she skinned her knee, Cartman there to advise she should probably tie her goddamn fucking shoelaces before doing it himself. The sunny scenario transitioned into Cartman snorting cocaine with Leonardo DiCaprio, Kenny as Margot Robbie prostrated in front of a baby crib. 

Shadows lanced the resultant star-studded threesome like film reel set alight. A nightmarish recollection sprung from the annals of Kenny’s subconscious, an oft-repeated scene of himself hiding under the rickety kitchen table, his father looming before him, belt in hand. Kenny lifted his head and his father turned--to reveal that his imaginary daughter was cowering at an amalgamation of Kenny’s addiction-stricken countenance and Stuart’s drunken mug. Kenny raised his belt. His daughter shrieked and covered her ears. The belt buckle glinted on the downswing, sharp as the blade of a knife. A siren clangored.

_Smack!_

Kenny awoke to the blaring alarm. Mittens leapt to the foot of the bed, her tail held aloft in contempt. Cartman snorted, rolled off of Kenny’s chest, clumsily fumbled for Kenny’s phone and slammed the snooze button. 

Kenny’s hurried breathing filled the silence. Cartman heaved upward on his palms, scanned the room for signs of fire, apocalypse, or ninjas, then assessed Kenny with bleary concern. “Ken?” 

Kenny screwed his eyes shut, Cartman’s brown irises reminding him of his dream daughter whom he’d whipped. He still felt the leather in his hand, the underside of the table pressing into his bony prepubescent shoulders. "I--I--I--”

The pillows rasped. Cartman laid down and mantled big spoon operations, gathered Kenny in his arms. “Breathe, princess. You sound like Jimmy Valmer.” 

A watery laugh unlocked Kenny’s throat. He grabbed Cartman’s sides, willed his lungs to a normal rhythm; they didn’t have room to expand against the wall of Cartman’s chest. “Shut up, dude.” 

“Wh-wh-wh-what’s up with airline food,” Cartman quipped. “Didja see his new special?” 

“On Netflix?” 

“HBO. He’s got his crippled fingers in all the pies.” 

“Any good?” 

“Pretty good. Heard through the grapevine he’s slotted to host SNL. He told Token, who told Nichole, who told Kyle, who told me. They let anybody host nowadays. They’d pick up a hobo off the street. It’d be the best episode in years.” 

Kenny blinked away the last vestiges of the dream. “Kyle’s still talking to Nichole?” 

Cartman grinned. “Imagine if they shacked up again.” 

“Dude. There’s kids involved.” 

“Kinda funny though, you have to admit.” Cartman plucked a flyaway hair off Kenny’s gummy eyelashes. “What’s got you all freaked out?” 

“Ugh.” Kenny hid his face in Bugs Bunny’s durag. “I had a weird dream.” 

“I had a weird dream too,” Cartman divulged. “We were throwing a baby shower at Casa Bonita. Cher sang our song and jumped off the waterfall.” 

“That isn’t our song.” 

“Yes, it is. After All is the best love ballad of all time and there’s no convincing me otherwise.”

“Our song’s the song we danced to at our wedding.” 

“Which I graciously allowed you to pick.” 

“Only ‘cause you did everything else.” 

Cartman snorted. “If you wanted to spend hours comparing silk swatches you should’ve let me know. I was only in it for the cake samples.” 

“You could’ve hired a planner,” Kenny countered. “But you didn’t, ‘cause you don’t trust anybody’s judgment.” 

“I trust yours,” Cartman said. “But you let me do whatever. Who I don’t trust is some broad with a blazer and a clipboard.” 

“Okay, Eric,” Kenny said. 

“Anyway,” Cartman said, never one to leave a dispute unsettled. “Our wedding song was a good song, yeah. But Cher’s is me and yours. That Anne Murray track was totally derivative. You said yourself your parents danced to it when they got hitched in the eighties--”

“Don’t, man.” Kenny pulled away and wiggled to the edge of the mattress, Stuart’s leer at the forefront of his mind. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about ‘em.” 

“Hey, hey, hey.” Cartman reached across the sheets and palmed Kenny’s clenched jaw. “Is that what you dreamt about?” 

“Yeah,” Kenny confessed. 

Cartman thumbed the corner of his mouth. “What happened?” 

“It’s stupid.” 

“Dreaming about a baby shower at Casa Bonita’s stupid; dreaming about your traumatic childhood isn’t. Tell me.” 

“I don’t want to.” 

“Why?” 

“Because.” Kenny turned onto his back and glared at the ceiling. “I’m just like ‘em.” 

“Now that’s stupid,” Cartman ribbed. 

“Just drop it,” Kenny huffed. 

“I’m not dropping shit,” Cartman said. “You’re freaking out--” 

Kenny sat up. “You’re the one who told me I’m gonna end up like my dad!”

Cartman reached for him again. “Back at Stan’s house? On guys’ night? That was a month and a half ago!” 

Kenny rebuffed his conciliatory caress. “It ain’t something easy to forget!” 

Cartman scrambled up against the headboard. “I was hungover. I was pissed off. I didn’t mean it, okay? Okay, Kenny?” 

“Oh, sure,” Kenny snapped. “You didn’t mean it. That makes it all better.” 

“You’re not gonna end up like your dad,” Cartman said. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m really sorry.” 

“Fuck you,” Kenny said. “Fuck you and your fucking apologies--” 

The alarm screamed. Cartman shut it off once more. “It’s a quarter till six,” he sighed. “Stan’s always running late. We got thirty minutes to work this out.” 

Kenny crossed his arms. “Fuck off.” 

“Fuck that,” Cartman said. “You’re the one butthurt we haven’t been talking. So let’s talk.” 

Kenny assumed the standard under-the-table formation: lips pursed, legs curled to his chest, profile blocked by his long hair. 

“Kennyyyy,” Cartman besieged, drawing out the tail-end of his name like he did when they were kids. “I’ll call Stan right now and tell him we can’t watch Emily. You want her at his folks’ place?” 

“I want her here.” 

“You are her favorite uncle.” 

“You’re just saying that.” 

Cartman scooched closer. “I’m not. She’s probably so damn excited. Stan told me she’s constantly asking about Uncle Kay. Uncle Rick’s chopped liver.” 

Kenny glanced through his hair. “You really hate how she calls you that, don’t you?” 

“I really do. What’s one more syllable, huh? We need to get her hooked on phonics.” 

Kenny couldn’t help grinning. “That damn monkey...” 

“And I didn’t even win the spelling bee.” Cartman slipped his hand beneath Kenny’s crewneck, tapped Morose code love notes into his skin. “Hey. Princess. I’m sorry, honestly. I shouldn’t have said that about your dad. I shouldn’t have said a lot of the shit I’ve been saying lately.” 

Kenny angled his body to the side, but did not move his head. “Me neither. When are we going back to the doctor?” 

Cartman stiffened. “One uncomfortable discussion at a time, sweetheart.” 

“Fine.” Kenny lolled his temple onto Cartman’s shoulder. “It didn’t start out too bad. We had a daughter.” 

Cartman’s breath hitched. “A girl?” 

“With my hair and your eyes,” Kenny said. “She was so pretty, man.” 

“Obviously,” Cartman said. “She’d have your genes.” 

Kenny swallowed. “McCormick genes ain’t something to be proud of.” 

“Maybe not,” Cartman allowed. “But they made you, right? And Karen. Hell, even Kevin’s okay when not detained by the county authorities.” 

“I hit her,” Kenny said. “With a belt. Same as my dad.” 

Cartman clutched his hip. “You wouldn’t ever do that, Ken.” 

“It’s in my DNA.” 

“And I got Tenorman DNA, but I’m not planning on leaving you high and dry with a kid to raise by yourself.” 

Kenny shrugged. “I dunno.” 

Cartman’s brow furrowed. “You don’t know if I’m gonna leave you?”

Kenny looked up. “I dunno if I’m gonna screw our kid over, just by being their dad.” 

“You aren’t,” Cartman said. “You’re gonna be an awesome dad. An awesome momma.”

“I guess.” 

“There’s no guessing. You’re the nicest person I know. You’re an angel.” 

“Butters is way nicer than me.” 

“Pfft,” Cartman dismissed. “I’m so sick of everybody talking about him like he’s Christ reincarnated. He spoils Jacob rotten. He’s gonna breastfeed that kid till he’s fifteen.” 

Kenny’s grin widened. “Gross, dude.” 

“It is gross,” Cartman said, openly smiling. “Butters gives anybody everything they want. That ain’t nice. It’s gonna turn Jake into a brat. It’s already turned Kyle into a brat.” 

“Kyle’s always been a brat.” 

“Why do you think he married Butters?” 

“You’re right,” Kenny sighed. “As always.” 

“Yeah, duh.” Cartman pinched Kenny’s chin down for a kiss. “You’re nice for real,” he said upon parting. “You don’t give people what they want. You give ‘em what they need. That counts more than anything.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like me. Remember when we got back together? You wrestled me into emotional submission. That was pretty nice of you. You really bust my balls, princess. But they need busted.” 

“Can I bust ‘em now?” Kenny asked. 

Cartman rifled his pants. “Lemme get ‘em out--” 

Kenny stilled his wrist. “Seriously, though.” 

“Okay,” Cartman said. “What, seriously?” 

Kenny considered him for a moment. “You need to get a pregnancy test.” 

Cartman’s pulse jumped. “Ken--” 

“We need to know,” Kenny said. “I’m going crazy. It’s been weeks--” 

“Three weeks and four days,” Cartman informed. “Not that I’m counting.” 

Kenny flattened his hand on Cartman’s stomach. “We could have a baby, Eric. A baby that’s three weeks and four days old.” 

“But what if we don’t?” 

“Then we try again.” 

Cartman shook his head. “I can’t do this over and over. I can’t keep getting my hopes up.” 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But we need to cross this one first.” 

“I guess.” 

Kenny nipped his neck. “What’d you say about no guessing?” 

“I know for damn sure I’m better at probability than you,” Cartman said. 

“It ain’t probability,” Kenny said. “It’s a possibility.” 

“Schroedinger’s fetus,” Cartman said. 

“Goddamn it,” Kenny groaned. “Stop doing the thing where you use big words to get me off track.” 

“You got yourself off track,” Cartman said. “The track was your daddy issues. Nothing to do with me.” 

Kenny’s phone flared. Cartman patted his hand, then peeled off his side and tapped the passcode--their wedding date--into the lockscreen. 

Kenny draped over Cartman’s back. “Who is it?” 

Cartman lifted the phone to his line of vision. 

_omw be there in 15 thx again bro_

“God,” Kenny said. “He still texts like he’s seventeen.” 

“Yeah, because you text like a fucking scholar,” Cartman tossed Kenny’s phone aside, slapped one foot on the floor. “I’m gonna shower.” 

Kenny slid down to his elbows. “You don’t wanna see Stan and Wendy?” 

“No, I do not,” Cartman said, en route to the en suite. “She’ll fucking interrogate me again.” 

“She’s concerned,” Kenny said. 

Cartman lobbed his t-shirt at Kenny’s face. “She’s nosy as fuck and I’m not dealing with it.” 

Kenny yanked the garment down to sneak a peek of Cartman’s naked torso. “I’ll let you know when the coast is clear.” 

“Much obliged,” Cartman said.

The bathroom door slammed shut; the shower ran soon thereafter. Kenny pulled Cartman’s tacky t-shirt over his sweater for the hell of it. Mittens awaited him once he shoved his head through the collar. 

“What? You already ate.” 

She pawed his nose. 

“Cartman’s busy. Emily’s coming. You know Emily. The baby?” 

Mittens’ ears flickered. 

“You ‘member. She’s old enough now she won’t play with your tail anymore. At least, I hope.” 

He sluiced his palm down Mittens’ slender spine in an attempt to prod her off the bed. She actually listened to him for once and traipsed downstairs. Kenny followed, wondering how the hell he was going to entertain an eighteen-month-old girl for the next five or so hours. 

He appraised the living room’s super-sized furniture, movie library, and video game collection. There were some old VHS tapes on the bottom rung of the DVD shelf kept for nostalgia’s sake, Disney flicks punctuated by a collector’s edition of Asses on Fire; Kenny doubted Wendy would appreciate Emily being exposed to the R-rated title, much as Stan would find it hilarious. 

A knock on the door sounded. “Guys?” Stan called. 

Kenny rose from his haunches. “In here.” 

Stan and Wendy entered the living room dressed in casual evening wear, their shoulders dusted with snow. They both frowned at Kenny’s thug Bugs Bunny t-shirt. 

“It’s Cartman’s,” he explained. 

Wendy dropped an enormous Vera Bradley diaper bag onto the sectional. “Where’s he?” 

“Showering.” 

Stan pointedly ignored Wendy’s I-told-you-so glance, bouncing Emily on his hip. “Look who it is, Em!” 

Emily flapped her hands. “Kay!” 

Kenny fiddled the pompom on her winter hat. “What’s up?” 

“She’s stoked,” Stan said. “She heard your name and freaked.” 

“Aw,” Kenny crooned. “Lemme take her.” 

Stan held his daughter to his chest. “Uh, when we leave--” 

“We’re leaving,” Wendy said. “Our reservation is at seven, Stanley.” 

Kenny extended his arms. “C’mon, man.” 

“Fine,” Stan sighed. 

Kenny looped his hands under Emily’s armpits and booped their noses together. “Hey, girlie!” 

Emily giggled. “Cat!” 

“Huh? Oh--” Sleek fur brushed Kenny’s ankle. He commandeered Mittens in his other arm. “You’ve met Mittens before.” 

Emily smacked her little hand between Mittens’ folded ears. “Meow!” 

“Be gentle, sweetie, like this,” Stan advised, illustrating proper petting. Emily tempered her affections, mouth wrinkled in concentration. 

“It’ll be fine,” Kenny said. “Don’t worry.” 

Wendy removed Emily’s hat and coat. “She hasn’t napped since one, so she’ll be ready for bed soon. It should be an easy night.” She placed Emily’s outer trappings on the sectional’s ottoman. “This is good practice for you two.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Kenny said. “I mean--maybe.” 

Stan frowned. “You still haven’t, like, confirmed it?” 

Mittens and Emily were losing their patience with one another. Thankful for the distraction, Kenny deposited them on the couch. Mittens hightailed it to the opposite armrest, while Emily busied herself playing with Kenny’s long hair. 

“No,” Kenny said. “He’s nervous.” 

“I’d be too, if I was purposely withholding medical care for my unborn child,” Wendy said. 

“Wends,” Stan warned.

She shrugged. “What? It’s true.” 

“He’s pussy-footing,” Kenny said. 

“He’s a pussy-footer,” Wendy agreed. 

Ever the mediator, Stan said, “It’s not like it’ll make much of a difference. It’s still pretty early, right? Not that I, um, want to know when--” 

“Three weeks and four days,” Kenny smirked. “According to Cartman.” 

“Some people don’t find out till the second or third month,” Wendy said over Stan’s scandalized sputtering. “But that’s when they aren’t planning. You two went into this with the intention to have a baby. So take responsibility for your decision.” 

Emily arrested Kenny’s hair in a particularly vicious yank. He contorted flat across the couch, giving the impression she’d bested his physical prowess. “I’m working on it.” 

Wendy groaned. “No, Kenny. You cannot wait for Cartman to come to his senses. Not about this.” 

“You don’t know him,” Kenny said. “You don’t know how he is.” 

“I know perfectly well how he is,” Wendy said. “He puts things off when he thinks he won’t get the answer he wants. And judging by his behavior, I’m not even sure he wants--” 

“Watch it,” Kenny snapped. 

Wendy raised her hands. “I’m just saying.” 

Kenny straightened, Emily’s fingers tangled in his hair. “What, that Eric’s got cold feet? You told me the same thing when we got married.” 

“And look what happened down the line,” Wendy said. “You nearly got divorced.” 

“They never actually split up,” Stan interjected. 

“We didn’t,” Kenny affirmed. “Everybody has problems, Wendy. Including you.” 

“Have I ever pretended I’m perfect?” she asked. 

“You talk like you are.” 

“Somebody has to be reasonable. I’ve spent my whole life being the voice of reason for you boys--” 

“And I don’t remember ever asking for your opinion,” Kenny said. “It’s my fucking business. You don’t see me telling you how to treat Stan or raise Emily.” 

“Forget it, then, if you’re so terrified of confronting Cartman.”

“I’m not scared of Eric.” 

“Then why is he hiding upstairs? Why didn’t you make him come down here?” 

“Because of you! He said you’d pull this crap!” 

Stan checked his watch. “Whoa-ho! Would you look at the time?” 

The unsubtle bid to wrap up the conversation went ignored. Kenny unwound Emily’s fingers from his hair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Eric’s probably not pregnant. We’re probably looking at trying for who knows how long.” 

“And if he is?” Wendy prompted. 

“Then we’ll spend the next nine months worried something’s gonna go wrong,” Kenny said. “I thought you’d be a little more sympathetic, considering--” 

“He told you,” Wendy realized, her eyes wide. 

“Of course he told me! We do actually communicate, despite popular opinion.” 

Wendy looked away, teeth gritted. A modicum of guilt dragged Kenny’s eyes to the black flatscreen. 

Emily crawled onto his thigh, noticing her mother’s anxiety. “Mommy!” 

Stan pivoted towards his daughter. “Hey, Em. Why don’t we go put your snacks in the kitchen?” 

Emily fisted the knee of Kenny’s sweatpants. “Kay!” 

Taking her vocalization as agreement, Stan swept her into his arms. He shouldered the diaper bag on his way out of the living room, and Wendy sat down in the vacated space. 

Kenny folded his leg on the cushion between them. “Wendy, listen--” 

“No, I’m sorry,” Wendy interrupted. “The only reason I’m harping you is because I know exactly how Eric feels.” She cocked her head; her black hair shifted, revealing modest diamond earrings Stan bought for their anniversary. “I’ve called him a thousand times the past month. Did you know that?” 

Kenny blinked. “No.” 

Wendy’s shoulders drooped with an exasperated sigh. “You aren’t missing much.” 

Kenny thumped back into the couch and kicked his feet beside Emily’s coat and hat on the ottoman. “He don’t talk to me either. Our therapist forces it out of him, kind of. But even then it’s not, you know, everything. I don’t know what to do anymore.” 

"He can’t live in denial forever,” Wendy said. “Either he’ll go into heat again or start showing signs. But it’d be better for both of you to be proactive.” 

Kenny sent her an derisive grin. “We’re not exactly the proactive type.” 

“You are, though,” Wendy said. “You were the first to get married. Which, to this day, was the craziest twist of fate.” 

Kenny flexed his left hand. “Yeah, it really was.”

The floorboards creaked overhead. They both looked up, then at each other, knowingly. 

“We should probably head out,” Wendy said. 

“Where you goin’?” Kenny asked. 

“Faggoncini’s,” Wendy said. 

Kenny whistled. “Damn!” 

“Stan won a gift certificate at a raffle at work,” Wendy said. 

“Surprised they weren’t giving puppies away or something,” Kenny said. Stan volunteered at the animal shelter in high school and had remained working there ever since.

Wendy smiled. “Oh, every day I get texts about the newest dog.” 

“I bet he’s got a bunch hidden around the backyard,” Kenny said. 

She shook her head. “He’s still mourning Sparky.” 

“Sparky died, like...” Kenny struggled to do the math. “Thirteen years ago.” 

“Trust me, I am well aware.” 

“Shit, man.” 

“He cares too much,” Wendy said. “It’s great. And terrible.” 

She rose off the couch, smoothing her skirt. Kenny stood with her. “So, we’re good?” 

“We weren’t not good,” Wendy said. “I’m sorry for implying otherwise. It’s just--you know--old habits.” 

Kenny grasped her elbow. “We really do need your opinion, sometimes. All of us boys.” 

Wendy smiled. “You’ll always be stupid boys to me.” 

The concept was oddly comforting. Kenny pulled her in for a hug. She returned the embrace, solidly feminine, the big sister he never had. 

She twirled on her high heels. “Stan? Are you ready?” 

Stan popped around the living room doorway. “Yeah.” 

“Were you standing there the whole time?” Kenny asked. 

“Not the whole time,” Stan said. 

Wendy unencumbered him of their daughter and diaper bag, the latter of which she thrust into Kenny’s arms. “Everything you need’s in here. We brought bedtime snacks, too. Mandarin oranges.”

Kenny slung the quilted strap over his shoulder, unzipped the bag and examined its contents. “What about her blankie?” 

“Stan packed it,” Wendy said. “Right, Stanley?” 

“Yup,” Stan said. “It’s at the bottom.” 

“You’re all set,” Wendy nodded. She tilted Emily in her arms. “Mommy and Daddy are going bye-bye, sweetie.” 

Previously enamored with Wendy’s glittery earrings, Emily zeroed in on her mother. “No!” 

“Yes, Emily,” Wendy said. “It’ll only be a few hours--” 

“Nooo,” Emily whined, thrashing her legs. 

Wendy passed her off to Stan. “Stan, please?” 

Stan took hold of Emily and lazily swirled her foot in the air. “It’s only a little while. You have to be a big girl, Em. Who’s daddy’s big girl, huh?” 

Instantly quelled, Emily sputtered a pleased remark and smacked Stan’s chin with her toes. 

Kenny lifted an eyebrow at Wendy, who flapped a hand in defeat. “Stan,” she said. “Come on.” 

Stan raised his head. “But--” 

Wendy stole Emily and transferred her unto Kenny with finality. Emily squirmed, displeased at being passed around in quick succession; Wendy pressed a placating kiss into her black mop of curls. “I love you, Em! Be good for Mommy.” 

Stan did the same. “Love you, sweetie.” 

Kenny grinned. “Do I get a kiss?” 

They each pecked Kenny’s cheeks. 

“Be good, Kenny,” Wendy said.

Stan lingered, staring at Kenny with all his years of experience as a best friend, husband, and father-to-be. “About Cartman--it’ll work out.”

Kenny glanced at Emily, adorably consternated, and at Wendy, patiently annoyed, wondering if he’d ever achieve what Stan had. “You think?” 

Stan clapped his back. “Yeah, bro.” 

Wendy looped her arm around Stan’s. “Let’s go. We’re running late.” 

Kenny followed them to the front door. Stan dug his heels in at the threshold. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?” 

“It’s a couple hours,” Kenny said. “What’s the worst that could happen?” 

“Lots,” Stan said. “Look, if you’re nervous, we really wouldn’t mind canceling--” 

“I’m not nervous,” Kenny said. 

“And I would mind,” Wendy added. 

Stan deployed a last-minute kiss on Emily’s scrunched forehead. “Can you tell Daddy bye? Tell Daddy you love him.” 

She sneezed into his mouth. 

“I’ll take it,” he muttered. 

Kenny hit the porch lights on and grasped the doorknob, slowly forcing Stan outside. “Have fun, guys.” 

“We will,” Wendy said. “Love you, Emily. Love you, Kenny.” 

“Love you,” Kenny smiled. 

Wendy leaned indoors. “Love you, Eric!” 

“He heard,” Kenny said. 

“He better,” Wendy said. 

She tugged Stan down the porch steps. Emily eagerly waved goodbye until they drove off and Kenny shut the door. Fully realizing her parents’ departure, she then broke down crying. 

Kenny walked towards the foot of the staircase, ineffectually patting her back. “Eric! You wanna come help me out?” 

Cartman appeared at last, his damp hair combed into a haphazard middle part that exaggerated the rotundity of his face. A walking ready-to-wear advert for the overweight and lazy, water droplets polka-dotted his heather gray Balenciaga hoodie, the hem of which dropped stylishly low past Champion sweats. He plodded downstairs, not particularly surprised Emily didn’t cheer up at his arrival. 

“Heya, Em,” he greeted, then kissed Kenny’s temple in apology for evading Stan and Wendy. “How was it? Wendy talk shit about me?” 

“Kind of,” Kenny said. “She’s worried about you, in her own way.” 

Cartman wiped the tears off Emily’s upper lip with his very expensive sleeve. “Didja tell her there’s nothing to worry about?” 

“Tell her yourself,” Kenny said. 

“I try keeping our interactions limited,” Cartman said. He poked Emily’s belly. “Only to see you!” 

Unamused, Emily buried her snotty face into Kenny’s neck. “I think she knows you don’t like her mom,” Kenny said. “Kids pick up on that stuff. She’d at least warm up if she saw you and Wendy interact.” 

“So, what?” Cartman prepositioned. “You two interact a bunch? I can smell her on ya.” 

Kenny frowned. They were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, but Cartman wasn’t a damn bloodhound. “How?” 

“It’s her cheap-ass perfume,” Cartman said. “You smell like Ulta’s makeup counter.” He elbowed Kenny’s side. “Let’s practice being dads.” 

They moved to the living room. Cartman constructed a pallet of blankets on the middle of the rug where Emily proceeded to roll around, bemoaning her abandonment. 

Kenny looked over his shoulder. “Got her blankie? Or pacifier? Or anything?” 

“Trying,” Cartman said, unpacking the diaper bag. “They’ve got so much fucking crap, like--” He lobbed a huge first aid kit on the floor. “--the fuck is this, in case of a tourniquet?” 

“Hope there’s an inhaler,” Kenny said. “She’s gonna give herself an asthma attack.” 

“Put on a movie,” Cartman recommended. 

“That’s your genius solution? Put on a movie whenever our kid cries?” 

“It’s what my mom did.” 

“Because she was a single parent. And a prostitute. She was probably too busy sucking cock to pay attention to you.” 

“Hmph,” Cartman neither confirmed nor denied. He finally wrangled Emily’s blankie. “Aha!” 

“Thank Christ,” Kenny sighed. 

Cartman held the mottled shred of fabric under Emily’s sniveling nose. “Look, Em!” 

She threw it over her ruddy face and continued crying, her gaping mouth forming black hole that tented on every angry exhalation. 

Kenny rolled into Cartman’s lap. “Great.”

Cartman leaned backwards on his hands. “She’ll go kaput soon enough.” 

Fifteen minutes later Emily’s fit had yet to cease. Kenny tried enticing her with his hair but she wasn’t buying it. Cartman dusted off the VCR and popped in Aladdin, then switched it out for Mulan; neither movie enthralled her infantile imagination. 

“So she isn’t a thespian,” Cartman determined. “That’s good. Musicals are gay.” 

“Watch your fucking language, man,” Kenny admonished. “And Mulan rules. Eddie Murphy’s awesome.” 

Cartman studiously pondered the Technicolor animation. “I bet it’s generational, you know? There’s nothing 2-D anymore. It’s a dead art form. Kids these days got Frozen and stuff, super detailed CGI bullshit. I saw Elsa’s nipples through that dress. They could cut diamonds.” 

Kenny checked on Emily. She was still hiding beneath her blankie, loud as ever. “We should do something.” 

“Alright, lemme take a stab at it.” Cartman lowered Kenny’s head off his lap and army-crawled towards Emily, his feet rippling waves across the pallet. “Emily,” he whispered, hunkered at her side. “Hey, Emily.” 

She warbled a keening moan. 

“Oh, really?” Cartman asked. “They just up and left? That blows. My dad went out for a pack of smokes, once. Never saw that bastard again.” 

“Eric,” Kenny laughed.

“This is an A-B conversation,” Cartman shot over his shoulder. “Kindly see yourself out.” 

“I’ll see myself in, thanks,” Kenny said. 

Cartman lifted the edge of Emily’s blankie. “Hello? Emily Natalie Marsh? The president’s on the line. He specifically asked for you.” 

Emily wrapped her blankie around her head and tucked the loose corners under her hair. She looked like she was about to be executed by a firing squad, or painted by Rene Magritte.

“Aw, c’mon,” Cartman whined. “Can’tcha look at me?” 

“No,” Emily sniffed. 

“Eric, you suck at this,” Kenny said.

“Like you’re any better,” Cartman said, twisting around. His face cleared with sudden inspiration. “Hey--Mittens!” 

Mittens prickled on the top of the couch. 

Kenny covered his face with his hands. “Dude, no.” 

“She’s my cat,” Cartman said. He snapped his fingers. “Yes, you. Get over here.” 

Mittens begrudgingly slithered to the floor. Emily loosened her turban. 

“Mittens wants to play,” Cartman told her. “You have to sit up, though.” 

“Meow,” Emily intoned. 

“Yup, meow, that’s right,” Cartman said. “You’re a whiz, kiddo. Doctor Doolittle.” 

He shoveled Mittens into his arms and made a little trilling sound in the back of his throat; Mittens deadpanned an echoing chirp. Emily inched between his legs, her blankie cloaking her shoulders like a cape. Mittens reared back against Cartman’s stomach whilst Emily scratched the underside of her chin, mirroring Stan’s earlier example as she attemped to emulate Cartman’s expert cat-talk. 

Cartman beamed at Kenny. “I’m pretty good at this!” 

“You’re pretty lucky,” Kenny said, climbing to his feet. “I’m gonna grab her snack.” 

Kenny’s pocket buzzed in the kitchen. He pushed the silverware drawer shut, spoon pinched between his fingers and Emily’s fruit cup, and retrieved his phone. 

_everything ok?_ Stan had texted. 

Kenny tiptoed back toward the living room. He peeked around the doorway, found Cartman on his back, Emily’s head cushioned on his arm, both of them petting a docile Mittens, and tacked a candid snapshot onto his reply: _all good :)_

After tearing through her Mandarin oranges Emily’s eyes began to droop, a full belly and hearty cry the perfect cocktail for sleep. She whimpered when Kenny tried to move her to the couch. He threw his hands up, fearing another breakdown, but she simply snuggled deeper into Cartman’s side and smacked her lips. 

“I’ll be damned,” Cartman said. “She likes me.” 

Kenny laid down on Emily’s other side. “She’s always liked you.” 

Cartman refitted her fallen blankie then looked up, smiling soft and sweet. “I could get used to this.” 

“Me too,” Kenny seconded, his insides warm and soupy. 

They settled down and watched the remainder of Mulan despite the lack of a conscious child in audience. Kenny dozed off halfway through the third act. When he woke up, Mittens had taken Emily and Cartman’s places. The diaper bag was gone. He heard Cartman’s hushed goodbyes, then the front door close. 

The porch lights went off, dousing the adjacent foyer in darkness out of which Cartman padded into the living room. “‘Bout time, sleepyhead.” 

“You should’ve woke me up,” Kenny mumbled. 

Cartman knelt down, braced his hands in Kenny’s splayed hair. “I tried. You were dead asleep.” 

Kenny lifted his chin. Cartman obligingly puckered his lips. There wasn’t more romance to be found anywhere. 

Kenny shifted, getting comfortable--but apparently an epic round of epic cuddly makeouts wasn’t on the docket. “What’s the deal?” he pouted as Cartman rose. 

“I gotta run to the store,” Cartman said.

“Huh?” Kenny rubbed his eyes, fully awake now. “What time is it?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Cartman said. “I’ll bring you back a candy bar.” 

Kenny stood up. “But why--”   
  
Cartman silenced him with another kiss. “It’ll be, like, fifteen minutes. Put on a movie.” 

“I’m not a baby,” Kenny huffed. 

“You’re acting like one,” Cartman said. “You’re poppa’s baby.” 

Kenny defiantly flopped onto the couch. “Whatever.” 

Cartman drifted into the foyer, his voice eclipsed by the sound of his keys jangling off the hook. “Love you!” 

“You too,” Kenny replied. 

The door shut again, leaving Kenny alone in the quiet. He fished his phone from the crumpled pallet of blankets, wondering if Stan had seen the picture of Cartman and Emily. 

_super cute!!!_

Underneath the text was a selfie of Stan and Wendy, their cheeks flush with red wine, hands clasped beside two plates of overpriced, mediocre Italian food.

_sorry i conked out_ , Kenny typed. _glad u guys had fun_

Wendy must’ve been driving home, because Stan’s reply was immediate: _ur fine dude. we didn’t stay long. how was em?_

_good_ , Kenny informed. _cartman calmed her down_  
  
_ya he was pumped about it_ , Stan sent. 

Kenny chewed his bottom lip. _did he seem weird?_

_??? no why_ , Stan asked. 

_he just left,_ Kenny relayed. _didn’t know if something was up_

A bubble of three dots appeared and disappeared in quick succession. _idk bro_ , was all Stan said. 

The brevity made Kenny suspicious, but he figured he’d find out what was going on when Cartman returned; Stan wasn’t the type to harbor conspiracies against his friends, and Cartman knew by now that keeping secrets would put him in the doghouse. 

_k_ , Kenny began, purposely inputting only one letter to clarify his disbelief, _well lmk if u need us 2 watch her again, she’s welcome anytime_

_word brother_ , Stan said. _we’ll return the favor ;) lol_

Kenny’s stomach somersaulted. _lol_ , he echoed, certainly not laughing out loud. He then tabbed over to Cartman’s name, denominated only as _Eric_. Cartman, on the other hand, employed an emoji cryptogram for all his contacts, rotating Kenny’s title between _Princess, Sweetheart,_ and _Ken_ with appropriate iconography: tiaras, kisses, eggplants, orange hearts, et cetera. 

Kenny stared at their latest digital exchange--Cartman’s announcement that he was ordering delivery, would Kenny like none pizza left beef--and fired off an inquiry before he pussy-footed. 

_u ok? sorry if i made u mad_

_no worries in line rn_ , Cartman responded. An inconspicuously angled photo of a bedraggled man donned in full camo, holding two cases of Monster Energy, followed. _found one of your cousins_

Kenny snickered. _ha. maybe tbh. idek my whole family tree. my dad always said to double check any girlfriends cuz we might be related_

_hope he never went to nebraska_ , Cartman said. 

_he never left colorado_ , Kenny assured. _what if are incestuous tho_

_when our kid comes out missing a chromosome we’ll know for sure,_ Cartman reasoned. _be home soon. love ♥_

Kenny let his phone tumble out of his hand. The flatscreen projected a blue film that bled through his eyelids and made sleep impossible, so he got up and folded all the blankets away, shut down the VCR, sheathed the VHS tapes in their cardboard sleeves, and was rinsing Emily’s slobbery spoon in the sink when the front door opened.

He tromped out of the kitchen, hands dripping wet, and barely caught Cartman booking upstairs.

Kenny dogged his heels, carefully stepped into their bedroom. “Eric?” 

“Just taking a piss,” Cartman said from within the bathroom.

Kenny jimmied the doorknob. “Why’d you lock the door?” 

“Is a little privacy too much to ask?” Cartman asked. “Jesus.” 

The furnace kicked on and rattled the house. Plastic crinkled; Kenny looked down and saw a hastily discarded sack emblazoned with a pharmacy logo. He pumped the doorknob again. “What did you go to Walgreens for?” 

A Kitkat bar skittered beneath the door. 

Kenny scowled. “I don’t want fucking candy. What the fuck are you doing in there--” 

Something else thumped into the Kitkat bar. Something white and oblong. Kenny picked it up with trembling hands. He took in a deep breath, flipped it over.   
  
His eyes widened. “Eric. Is this--you’re--we’re--” 

The door swung open. Cartman stood on its other side, hair mussed, unshed tears threatening to spill. “Uh-huh.” 

Kenny’s impulse to puke and cry and laugh all at once resulted in a joyful, garbled sob. Taking advantage of his extra height, he bottled Cartman’s trembling shoulders against his chest. 

Cartman swayed, forcing him to stumble into the bed. They landed in a tangle, limbs askew; Kenny rearranged Cartman on his side and wiped his tears, kissed him everywhere. “We did it, baby--you did it--we’re doing it--” 

“Shut up,” Cartman ordered. “Don’t ruin this, Kenny.” 

Kenny muzzled himself the only way he knew how, by pulling Cartman on top of him. He netted Cartman’s mouth in another kiss, both of them ugly crying, all snot and spit.

Cartman deflated with a congested sigh. Kenny palpated his stomach. There was a baby in there, or at least the goopy beginnings of one. Kenny didn’t care if they were going for a million per stem cell--that zygote was his and Cartman’s, a priceless combination of their cheap genetics. 

“I love you,” Cartman said, the three words imbued with more emotion than when he relinquished his virginity at Stark’s Pond, picked Kenny up from rehab for the fifth and last time, or recited their vows on the altar. “I love you,” he said again and again, until Kenny was able to repeat it back, over and over.

The remaining portion of Kenny’s soul, that which he hadn’t given to Cartman, got siphoned into their child. They were no longer two people joined into one, but the extension of another. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot is finally picking up speed 
> 
> also this chapter confirms kenny and cartman's ages. in the previous fic they were 30. this fic is set about two years later, but they're still 30 lol. eventually i'll go back and edit the first part to fit the doctored continuity. south park premiered in 1997. they were eight years old which means they were technically born in 1989. i went with that for this fic. 
> 
> i've done rudimentary research on money laundering in fine art and basic stuff w architecture and technology suppliers (as well as colorado's economy, which is compromised in large part by tech). don't take anything too seriously.

Given its name Kenny assumed that morning sickness occurred in the morning, but for the past three days Cartman had ejected out of bed before morning was even a hint on the horizon, albeit technically after midnight. Kenny woke up on the fourth day without fail, immediately reaching for the other side of the mattress. When his palm encountered the empty void where Cartman had lain, he wobbled into the bathroom.

The bathroom’s porcelain features took on a blue hue with the lights off, its marbled floor looking like veiny inside-out muscle. Cartman turned at Kenny’s arrival, sitting in front of the toilet wrapped in their bazillion threadcount sheets, his eyes bloodshot and Cupid’s bow sparkling. 

Kenny gently redirected his consternated brow towards toilet bowl, then knelt behind him on the cold tile. “Y’gotta let it out, Eric.” 

“Nope,” Cartman gulped. 

“M’kay,” Kenny said, and sleepily dropped his head between Cartman’s shoulder blades. 

Cartman’s body convulsed with another aborted upchuck. “This sucks.”

Kenny kissed the nape of his neck. “I know, baby.” 

“No you don’t,” Cartman said. “You’re not the one with the baby, baby--”

He shuddered again. Thinking it was the real deal, Kenny combed his bangs off his sweaty forehead. But all he produced was a meager cord of saliva he yo-yo’d back into his mouth. 

Kenny’s lip curled. “Eugh.” 

“Go to bed,” Cartman spat. “Leave me to my misery.” 

“Nope.” Kenny manhandled Cartman into his lap, rubbed his upset stomach. “Just get it over with. You drag this out every time.” 

“I’m etemophobic, asshole,” Cartman said. 

“I dunno what the hell that means,” Kenny mumbled. “You’re a just little bitch.” 

“You’re a little bitch,” Cartman countered. “Actually, scratch that, you’re a humongous bitch--” 

Kenny titled him horizontal. “Hey, I got a song. I made it up right now just for you.” 

Cartman puffed his bangs out of his eyes. “I don’t wanna hear it.” 

“You’re a little bitch, short and stout,” Kenny began. “Here’s your handle--” He slipped one hand underneath Cartman’s ass, then cupped Cartman’s crotch with the other. “--and here’s your spout--” 

“Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I won’t kick your ass,” Cartman warned. 

“Tip you over,” Kenny continued, maneuvering Cartman above the toilet once more, “and pour you out!” 

Cartman glared over his shoulder. “Fantastic. Why don’t you go work on it some more, give me some peace, huh?” 

“Oh, well.” Kenny retracted. “I’ll leave, if you really want me to.” 

Cartman averted his eyes. “You don’t have to.” 

“Okay,” Kenny chirped, and cuddled Cartman’s back again. 

His spine locked under Kenny’s chest. “Kennyyyy,” he moaned. 

Kenny squeezed his bubbling guts, secretly trying to hurry the process along. “It’s okay, baby.” 

Cartman’s perspiring forehead glanced off the toilet seat. “Fuck,” he gasped. His throat bobbed with a rush of puke retained by his clenched teeth. “Fuck, Ken--” 

“I’m right here, Eric,” Kenny promised. “It ain’t that bad.” 

“Nuh-uh,” Cartman grunted. 

“Yeah-huh,” Kenny said. “Remember Mrs. Choksondik? That old hag? Just think of her naked.” 

Cartman elbowed Kenny’s sternum, the mention of their third grade teacher bringing back third grade antics. “Shut up, fart face!” 

Kenny pressed closer, undeterred. “Or the rumor about her and Mr. Mackey? Picture those two getting it on.” 

“Stop it,” Cartman whined. 

“Okay, okay.” Kenny kissed behind his ear. “What d’you need?” 

“Hold me,” Cartman sniffed. 

“I am,” Kenny said. “I’m not letting go till you tell me.” 

Cartman stiffened. “Let go, let go, let go!” 

Kenny snorted. “I didn’t mean like that--” 

“No, seriously,” Cartman hissed. “Let me go, Kenny--” 

He lurched forward and regurgitated last night’s hot wings in a vocal, putrid torrent, clearly untrained in the art of discreetly blowing chunks behind the addiction recovery clinic unlike Kenny. Each hurl was successively less orange than the last, the last coming out clear; all flushed down the drain in a creamsicle whirlpool.

Physical evidence extinguished to the septic tank in the backyard, Kenny got up and activated the steam vents to mitigate the clinging stench of zesty barbecue. “Raisins was probably a bad idea, huh?” 

“I’m not passing up fifty-cent Tuesdays,” Cartman scoffed, dislodged phlegm and saliva draining past his lips. 

Kenny returned and kneaded his shoulders. “Then don’t eat thirty wings next week.” 

Cartman spat into the toilet and flushed it again, then reclined into Kenny’s massage. “I’m protecting my title. My picture’s been on the wall for five years.” 

“Nobody’s breaking your record anytime soon, babe,” Kenny said. 

Cartman looked up. “Blech.” 

“There’s my poppa,” Kenny smirked. 

“Mmhmm.” Cartman’s eyelids drooped. “Feels nice.” 

“Let’s get you back in bed,” Kenny said. “I’ll rub ya down really, really nice.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Cartman asked. 

“Yeah,” Kenny said. “Gotta clean up, first.” 

Cartman flapped his arms. “Pick me up.” 

Kenny laughed. “I can’t pick you up, Cartman.” 

“I’m too fat,” Cartman said. 

“Naw,” Kenny said. “I’m just a wimp.”

“I’m gonna get even fatter,” Cartman lamented. “I’m gonna have to scooter around. You’ll have to use a crane to get me out of bed.”

“Bro, quit,” Kenny pleaded. 

Cartman canted his voice low. “Dude, I’m carrying your child. No homo, brah.” 

“Oh, I’m full homo,” Kenny said. 

“You’re half, actually,” Cartman corrected. “Bisexual slut.” 

“I am a slut. For you. I’m you-sexual.” 

“Sure, tell that to the Raisins girls.” 

“That’s just window shopping. They’re eye candy.” 

“Am I not sweet enough for ya?” 

“You’re plenty sweet,” 

“Gimme a kiss, then.” 

Kenny dodged Cartman’s scrunched lips, pecking his nose instead. “Not when you’re all pukey.” 

“Fine,” Cartman pouted. 

He stood up, reorganized the sheets around his shoulders like a domesticated, daddy Batman, and slugged towards the sink. 

Kenny hopped onto the counter. Cartman paused mid-toothpaste application. “You gonna supervise me brushing my teeth, too?” 

“I’d supervise you taking a shit,” Kenny said.

Cartman rolled his eyes. “I know.” He commenced dental hygienics, speaking around his frothy toothbrush. “The announcement of imminent bowel movements is not the invitation to conversation you think it is. Pooping is my alone time.” 

“But you poop for so long,” Kenny said. “I miss you.” 

Cartman spat and ran the faucet, tossed his toothbrush aside, and lifted an eyebrow. “Can you kiss me now?” 

“That wasn’t two minutes,” Kenny said. 

“What are you, my dentist?” Cartman looped his arms around Kenny’s neck. “Your teeth are worse than mine.” 

Kenny bared his receding gums, his spine jackknifed to equalize their height difference. “It was all the cat piss. And cock sucking.” 

“That’s great you can joke about being a crackwhore now,” Cartman said. “I don’t find any humor in the fact that I married my mother. You want veneers for your birthday?”

“Sure,” Kenny said. “Lemme get botox while I’m at it, make myself more attractive to society’s standards.” 

Minty fresh with barely a taste of chicken, Cartman tongued Kenny’s rotten mouth and popped his lips. “By my standards you’re hot as hell.”

“One to ten,” Kenny prompted. 

“Nine point nine-nine,” Cartman deliberated. 

“Bullshit,” Kenny said. “I’d rate you a ten.” 

“You’d be lying,” Cartman said. “The only ten in this world is--” 

“Justin Timberlake,” Kenny guessed, going through Cartman’s list of childhood celebrity crushes. “Leonardo DiCaprio. Or, wait--” 

“Christopher Meloni,” Cartman said. 

Kenny stopped short. “Seriously?” 

“Not that I’m a sex offender,” Cartman said. “But if I was, well. Hello Detective Stabler.” 

“The chick’s sexier,” Kenny said. 

“What era are we talking?” Cartman asked. “The later seasons, sure, I could see it. But early 2000s, with that spiky soccer mom hairdo she had? No way.”

A bar of sunlight erected itself in the sky and toppled through the window. Kenny sheltered himself in Cartman’s shadow, squinting. “Can we go to lay down already?” 

“I didn’t park my bare ass on the counter,” Cartman said. “I came in here to puke, alone. You barged in and started making conversation.” 

He prodded Kenny back to bed. They laid parallel under the covers. Light crawled across the ceiling; Kenny’s arm crawled across Cartman’s stomach. “Feeling better?” 

“I feel like I just wasted twenty bucks worth of delicious, discounted chicken wings,” Cartman said. 

“I’ll reimburse you,” Kenny said. “Sexually.” 

“Ah, yes,” Cartman said. “Was twenty your usual flat rate, or?” 

“I didn’t get paid in cash,” Kenny said. “It was more of a trading and bartering type deal.” 

Cartman walked his fingertips up and down Kenny’s arm. “Least you weren’t pimped out.”

“You’re the only pimp I’ve ever had,” Kenny promised. 

“Good,” Cartman said. 

Kenny rubbed his cheek against the soft cotton of Cartman’s sweatshirt. “Go to sleep, poppa.” 

Cartman grunted noncommittally. His REM cycle was completely fucked. As a teenager he played video games until four in the morning, went to school three hours later, slept his classes away, then restarted the whole process. As a young adult he worked thirds at a bunch of odd jobs, then when Kenny staggered back into his life he stayed up on guard duty, making sure Kenny wouldn’t asphyxiate on his own vomit or escape to the streets. Once Kenny was sober and producing art, he drove all night to different art fairs around Colorado and lounged half-asleep in a lawn chair as Kenny peddled their wares during the day. 

Kenny often fell asleep under the muted glow of Cartman’s phone, laptop, or Law and Order: SVU marathons on the TV. He hoped Cartman would surrender his nocturnal ways once the baby came, but they had eight months to negotiate bedtimes. For now, Kenny happily dozed off to the familiar sound of Cartman tapping his phone. Occasional kisses to his temple knocked him one rung deeper into unconsciousness. When Cartman started lazily scratching his scalp, he let go entirely, feeling safe being watched over by his vampiric teddy bear of a husband.

The windows spilled unfettered sunlight hours later, pulling Kenny awake. He rolled belly-down into Cartman’s vacant spot in the bed, peeked over his shoulder at the open bathroom door which offered no clues. Chagrined at the scavenger hunt, he rolled again, onto his feet. He fished the floor for clothes, ended up with a pair of his own jeans and one of Cartman’s t-shirts, brushed his teeth and took a piss, his footsteps matching those of Cartman’s downstairs. 

He found Cartman in the kitchen. Mittens burbled at lackluster good morning from the island; behind her was a curious spread of fruits and vegetables.

Cartman looked up, wielding a knife. “Morning.” 

Kenny tiptoed behind him, raked his fingernails underneath the lower hem of his boxers. “What’re you doing?” 

The knife thunked against the cutting board. Cartman swept a slice of zucchini into a blender. “Getting my daily servings.” 

Kenny peered at the blender’s chunky contents. “What all’s in there?” 

“A balanced breakfast,” Cartman reported. 

Kenny gave Cartman’s ass cheek a squeeze farewell, then stole an orange. “Why don’tcha cook it?” 

“Why would I, when I can do this?” Cartman fastened the blender shut and let it rip. 

Kenny tossed the ribboned orange peel on the counter. “Whatever you say, baby.” 

Cartman upended the mix of fruit, vegetables, and whey protein mixed into a large glass. “It’s efficient. You think Dwayne the Rock Johnson has time for three course meals? I bet he drinks one of these every day.” He chugged a swill and immediately spluttered. “Oh, Christ--” 

“Yeah?” Kenny asked.

Cartman thrust the glass forward. “It’s deplorable. Try it.” 

Kenny popped an orange slice into his mouth. “I’m good.” 

Cartman glared at the smoothie. “I can do this. I just gotta pretend I’m the Rock. Or a Beverly Hills housewife on a colon cleanse.” 

“You’re pregnant,” Kenny said. “You’re providing nutrition for our baby.” He abandoned his orange and held out his hand. “Look, I’ll have some. Then we’ll both suffer.” 

Cartman passed him the glass. He suckled a small sip as if it were poison, grimaced, and immediately handed it back. “Ugh, that’s rancid.” 

“A father’s burden,” Cartman shrugged. 

He downed the rest of the concoction standing at the sink, then washed his mouth out with the detachable hose. Kenny stepped forward, worried he was sick again. “So this is your diet plan?” 

Cartman righted, gurgling, spat into the sink and wiped his mouth. “It works, don’t it?”

Kenny wiggled his head, neither a shake nor nod. “Ehhh.” 

“There’s no rule I have to eat solids,” Cartman said. “Rocky ate raw eggs!” 

“Didn’t he lose his fights?” Kenny asked. 

Cartman’s brow rose. “You’ve never seen Rocky?” 

“The only movies I watch are the ones you show me.” 

“Well excuse me for not noticing the glaring hole in your education!” 

Kenny palmed his ass. “Let’s watch ‘em. I’ll make popcorn.” 

Cartman firmly removed Kenny’s hand. “You need to work, Kenny. You got those new commissions, remember? I wanna stay on schedule for once.” 

“Fine,” Kenny sighed. 

He whisked to the studio, pockets bulging with oranges for later. The previous commissions had finally been shipped a couple days ago. Now, Kenny had to face another blank square and make something of it. Before that, however, he needed to stretch new canvases. 

Just as Kenny dropped planks of wood onto the floor followed by a roll of untreated canvas, Cartman strolled in wearing the same pair of crusty jeans he donned whenever he lent assistance. “How big are we going?” 

Kenny blinked, holding a staple gun. “Are you sure you should be up here? In your condition?” 

Cartman wrested the staple gun from his hands. “Don’t start that shit with me. My condition? Am I quarantined?” Kenny didn’t reply, assuming the question was rhetorical. “Well?” 

“No,” Kenny said, wilting under Cartman’s stern glare.

“That’s right,” Cartman said. He patted his belly. “Kid’s like a month old, tops. Size of a fucking lima bean. Nothing’ll happen. And you can’t do this by yourself.” 

He dropped to his knees before Kenny could argue further, but Kenny didn’t have an argument against that. Besides painting, Cartman handled the bulk of the artmaking process: the craftsmanship, the business, the bullshit. Behind every big name artist was somebody who took care of the details. Jackson Pollock had his wife, Lee Krasner; Van Gogh had his brother, Theodore; Kenny had Cartman, who put it like this: Kenny made good paintings, and Cartman made the paintings look good. 

Kenny held an entirely rational fear of motorized saws, so he insisted on buying pre-cut stretcher bars. All they had to do was slot the corners together with a little wood glue to make an eight-by-ten foot frame. The hard part was stretching the canvas--ordinarily. Cartman’s big hands simplified the ordeal. He grasped the canvas tight, curled it over the frame until the wood creaked and his fingers went white, while Kenny darted between his arms with the staple gun. 

They were on the fourth canvas when Kenny stapled a hair too close to Cartman’s thumb. The frame clattered out of his hands, half-secured canvas flouncing. “Fuck!” 

Kenny discarded the staple gun and scrambled after him. “What, what? Is it bad?”

“I’m kidding!” Cartman brandished his uninjured thumb. “It was a joke, chill out.” 

“That’s not funny,” Kenny snapped. “I thought you were hurt!” 

Cartman flapped his hand. “Calm down. Let’s finish this.” 

“We’re done,” Kenny said.

Cartman’s eyes narrowed. “We only made three. You’ve got five orders lined up.” 

Kenny stood and swiped the staple gun off the floor. “The other two can wait.” 

“Oh, okay,” Cartman scoffed, rising to match Kenny irritated posture. “Don’t let me intrude on your creative genius!” 

He slammed the studio door the same time Kenny slammed the tool cabinet shut, resulting in a clamorous bang punctuated by Cartman’s office door on the story below seconds later. 

Kenny propped the finished canvases against the wall, their unclothed counterparts sitting opposite, the perpendicular windows lobbing midday sunlight in between. Kenny hunkered down in the light and chomped one of his reserved oranges, fuming at the blank rectangles in front of him. 

He finished his snack and mummified the canvases with layers of thick gesso, left them to dry, then attacked a scrap Masonite board with paint from an old palette. His anger had simmered to guilty embers by the time the board was covered in meaningless black gunk--not only for his past actions, but also for the fact that Cartman’s t-shirt was now irrevocably stained with paint, which peeled off his torso and hung on the top of the easel. 

Already slinking towards the second story, Cartman’s voice apprehended him in the middle of the stairs--"Kenny! Get in here, quick!”

Kenny hopped over the last few steps, bolted down the hall, and skidded into Cartman’s office, expecting to find Cartman writhing the floor in a pool of blood or cardiac arrest. Instead, Cartman was seated behind his desk, gripping the receiver to the fancy landline he used for sales. He beckoned Kenny to come closer, then patted his lap. 

Bemused, Kenny straddled his thigh. “Um, what--” 

“Shut up,” Cartman said. His shoulders were fraught with an intensity similar but unrelated to his earlier irritation; he meant business. “There’s somebody on hold. For you.” 

Kenny glanced at the telephone. “Who?” 

Cartman pressed a button. “You’re on speaker,” he said to the caller. “My husband’s here.” The possessive terminology did not go unnoticed by Kenny. 

A modulated voice filled the room. “Hello, Mr. Cartman.”

Kenny jolted and looked at Cartman, but Cartman was occupied with his computer, seemingly triangulating the call with a program Kenny was unaware he owned. 

“Um, hi,” Kenny said. “Who am I speaking to?” 

“Banksy,” the caller said. 

“Oh! Could you, uh, gimme a minute--” Kenny jammed the hold button. “Eric, what the fuck?” 

Cartman’s lips quirked. “I know, right?” 

“Is this legit?” 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” 

Kenny slipped an arm around Cartman’s shoulders to anchor himself. “What does he want?” 

“Wouldn’t say,” Cartman said. His fingertips hopscotched around the keyboard. Results inconclusive, he leaned back, mouth pursed. “The guy’s legit, alright. I can’t pinpoint him.” 

“Can’t you hack into his mainframe or something?” 

“This isn’t a movie, sweetheart.” 

“I didn’t even know you had shit like this. Since when could you track phone calls?” 

“Civilians can do anything nowadays. You just have to be smart about it.” 

Kenny chewed his lip. “Can he track us?” 

Cartman frowned. “I don’t know why he’d need to. Let’s just hear what he has to say.” He reopened the line. “Banksy, we’re back. Sorry about that.” 

“No problem,” Banksy replied. 

Kenny’s spine chilled at the Darth Vader-esque timber. “Look, dude. Are you really, y’know--the guy?” 

“I assure you that I am who I say I am,” Banksy said. 

“And why should we believe you?” Cartman asked. 

“I cannot confirm my identity beyond reasonable doubt at the moment. But,” Banksy added, terminating Cartman’s response, “a new piece of mine will be unveiled at Sotheby’s tonight at 5 PM, eastern standard. Name any small object you wish. I will put it in the piece, in the hand of a baboon on a unicycle. Upon seeing it you will know the truth of my claim.”

“Bullshit,” Cartman said. “That doesn’t mean jack.” 

“I don’t see how,” Banksy said. “Think of something obscure. Something only you would recognize.” 

Kenny scanned the desk. His gaze landed on a picture of Mittens as a kitten. “A cat,” he said. “A brown tabby--” 

Cartman bristled. “Oh, no. Mittens is not--” 

“--with green eyes,” Kenny continued, “and an orange spot above her right eye.” 

“Any other details?” Banksy asked. 

“She’s got white socks on her feet. Besides her left back leg.” 

“She sounds cute.” 

“I could send you a high resolution dick pic instead,” Cartman sneered. “Put my cock in the painting.” 

“The feline is sufficient,” Banksy said. “She will be featured. Keep an eye out.” 

“What do you want?” Kenny asked. “What’s all this for?” 

“I have a business proposition. I’ve been following your career for some time. Your MoMA exhibition was very evocative. If you stay on this trajectory you could become something, Kenny--and I intend to guide you, should you allow me.” 

“I already am something,” Kenny said, tightening his grip on Cartman’s shoulders. “I’m more than I thought I’d ever be. I don’t need anything else.” 

“Should you accept my offer, you will become a millionaire,” Banksy stated. 

“Oh, please,” Cartman drawled. 

“Eric,” Banksy said. Kenny froze; Cartman’s thigh tensed beneath his crotch. “That is your name, correct? It has come to my attention you’ve acquired three warehouses in South Park, Colorado.”

“How the fuck do you know that?” Kenny demanded. 

“The real estate listing is public. I wish to utilize the space for my own purposes.” 

“What purposes?” Cartman asked. 

“I am not liable to divulge that information until you agree to my terms.” 

Cartman scraped his bangs off his reddening forehead. His hand formed a fist, with which he punched the desk. “You’re busting my balls, Banksy!” 

“I will triple your current asking price. Quadruple it--” 

“Sale’s already finalized,” Cartman shouted. “You take your million bucks and shove it up your ass!” 

“Mr. Cartman, please, hear me out--” 

Cartman jettisoned out of his chair, scraped the desk away from the wall, and yanked the telephone line free from its socket. 

Kenny picked himself up off the floor, elbows throbbing at the hard landing. “Eric, baby--” 

“Fuck that guy,” Cartman seethed. “Fuck that fucking asshole--” 

“It’s okay,” Kenny said, placing his hands on Cartman’s heaving chest. “Just cool down--” 

Cartman shoved him aside. “I’m going to the warehouses.”

Kenny followed him out the door. “The fuck you are!” 

“The fuck I am,” Cartman said. “Whether you come with me or not!” 

Kenny snared his waist, forcing him to a halt in the middle of the hallway. “Then I’m coming with you.” 

Cartman shrugged him off. “We’re leaving in five.” 

Kenny spent the drive watching for unmarked SUVs on their trail while Cartman gnawed a giant wad of spearmint gum behind the wheel. Terse silence prevailed, until the Tesla bumbled over a set of train tracks into the cement checkerboard of South Park’s outlying industrial district. 

“I got some guys,” Cartman said. 

Kenny looked away from the far-off smokestacks. “Some guys?” 

“The contractors I told you about,” Cartman elaborated. “They’re my employees. Of a sort.” 

“Get to the point,” Kenny sighed. 

“They’re aliens,” Cartman said. “Illegal immigrants. Just, you know, so you know.” 

Kenny rubbed his eyes. “Let me get this straight. You’ve been paying illegal immigrants to work on our properties?

“Only the warehouses,” Cartman said. “It’s a big job. Where else am I gonna get so much muscle? Take some contracted schmucks, they’ll slack off, protected by unions and crap. But my guys work better than anybody. Everything’s up to code, so as to not arouse suspicion. Tip-top shape.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Kenny said. “I don’t care.” 

“But you do care,” Cartman said. “And I’ll tell you something else--I pay ‘em fair wages. I’m helping them achieve their dreams of opening shitty taco joints all with the same shitty queso dip. So, they’re not slaves or anything.” 

“And how are they supposed to help us with the Banksy situation?” Kenny asked. 

“They’re illegal immigrants, Kenny. They survived the Mexican ghetto and crawled into this country tooth and nail.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” 

“They’ve been through real shit. Whatever that British prick hiding behind a V for Vendetta mask has in store is nothing to them.” Cartman pulled up to a gated block, rolled his window down and punched a few numbers into a boxy control panel. The Tesla trundled forward. “Code’s your birthday, backwards. 98-22-30.” 

Mildly touched, Kenny turned away from the gate rattling shut behind them. “Good to know.” 

A narrow road lead them to an expansive parking lot at the foot of a ramshackle brick building. Cartman parked a couple spots behind a row of ancient trucks, each dressed in tarpaulin and rust patches. “Well, here we are. It’s not much now, but.” His seatbelt rippled over his shoulder. “One day.” 

Kenny followed Cartman out of the car. The rough material of his Carhartt rasped as he shielded his eyes against sunlight exaggerated by pools of half-melted snow. The foremost warehouse was the squattest. Its two brothers loomed behind, forming a lopsided triumvirate that blotted the sky. Shattered windows smiled dumbly like broken teeth, and gravel dusted the edges of the parking lot--soil, Kenny imagined, for weeds to flourish in the spring and summer. 

He glanced at Cartman across the sleek hood of the Tesla, dirt and dust contaminating its seamless chrome exterior, struggling to match the property to its owner, current and future. “A tech company wants to buy this place out?” 

Cartman’s hand passed over his stomach with a telling pause, then moved to the back of his jeans where he fingered his semi-concealed pistol, coat tangled in the crook of his elbow. “Yeah, what of it?” 

“Seems a little off brand,” Kenny said, the understatement of a lifetime. His father and his father’s father had worked in places like this, where the blood and sweat of blue collar ruffians stained every nook and cranny; he couldn’t imagine Silicon Valley surrogates taking their place. 

“It’s for storage, not a goddamn think-tank,” Cartman said. 

“Why South Park?” Kenny asked. “Nobody gives a fuck what goes on here.” 

“Exactly,” Cartman emphasized. “It’s all about location, Kenny. This place is low-key and cheap. And accessible. We’re smack dab in the middle of the Western half of the United States.” 

“But, like, why--” 

“I don’t know, Margot,” Cartman snapped. “I don’t ask questions!” Kenny found that hard to believe. Cartman noticed his unconvinced expression, rounded the Tesla, and took his hand. “What’s with all the concern? Banksy got you freaked out?” 

“The whole thing’s weird,” Kenny said. “Even without Banksy. It gives me bad vibes.” 

“I don’t underestimate your clairvoyance, sugar,” Cartman said. "But I also don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” 

“Have you even met with anybody, got a feel for ‘em?” Kenny asked. 

“Couple conference calls,” Cartman said. “They’re all out in California. This is basically a dump site for cross-country shipping. It’s really not that big of a deal.” 

Kenny turned his back to the warehouses and cupped Cartman’s hips, swiped his thumbs over the invisible secret within Cartman’s abdomen. “I still don’t get what’s in it for Banksy. What’s he want, a painting factory? He ain’t no Warhol.” 

“Oh, princess. You’re so innocent.” Cartman kerplunked onto the hood of the Tesla, tugged Kenny between his spread legs. “It’s a money laundering gig, obviously.” 

Kenny’s lips parted. “Huh?” 

"The dark underbelly of the fine art establishment has thus eluded you,” Cartman said. “I’ve tried protecting you from it for so long now--” 

Kenny pinched his side. “Cartman.” 

Cartman dropped the gallant act. “It’s simple. Let’s say you’re a stinking rich mob boss or something. All your money’s blood money. So you go to an auction house, sink the cash into some overpriced artwork.” 

“I’m following,” Kenny said. “Then what?” 

“Then you sell it off to museums, galleries, collectors--or hide it somewhere,” Cartman said. “Like a warehouse in the middle of Colorado. Wait a couple years for the good shit to ferment on the market, or till one of your mob buddies needs a buyout for himself. Boom. You’ve covered your tracks and made a profit and helped one of your friends.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” Kenny said. “That’s dumb as hell.” 

“It’s genius, actually,” Cartman said. “It’s almost foolproof. The feds caught on awhile back. But I’m sure old Banksy knows how to avoid ‘em.” 

The reverence imbuing his words rankled Kenny. “I’m surprised you’re not jumping at the chance to get in on it, honestly.” 

“You wound me,” Cartman said. “My endeavors might be semi-legitimate, but they’re still legitimate.” He reached up and wound a lock of Kenny’s hair around his index finger. “I wouldn’t let you get stuck in a mess like that. I don’t want you losing your bright-eyed idealism.” 

“You don’t have to protect me, Eric,” Kenny said. 

“You have no idea the lengths I’ve gone to protect you,” Cartman said. 

Kenny grasped Cartman’s hand, lowered it from his hair. “How long of lengths are we talking?” 

“It’s an expression,” Cartman said, eyes hardened. He pushed off the Tesla, forcing Kenny back a step. “Vamonos, vamonos. My hombres are waiting.” 

Conversation on hold--but not finished, Kenny insisted to himself--Cartman lead Kenny around the first warehouse’s left flank, where the parking lot funneled into a protracted quad gouged with tire treads, the sky above framed by the severe lines of flat rooftops. Colorful Spanish music leaked out of an open garage door at the end of a long line of decommissioned docking bays. A leathery, dark-haired man lumbered down the adjacent ramp, wearing a faded t-shirt, jeans, puffer vest, and backwards baseball cap from which he plucked a hidden cigarette. 

Cartman broke off from Kenny’s side. “Slacking off on the job, Hernandez? I’ll have to write you up.” 

Unbothered by the reprimand, Hernandez lazily lit his cigarette. “Hola, jefe.” 

“This is my husband, Kenny,” Cartman said as Kenny came to a stop beside him. “Kenny, this is Hernandez.” 

Kenny pivoted downwind of Hernandez’s enticing cigarette smoke. “Uh, hey.” 

“Buenos noches, princesa,” Hernandez greeted. 

Kenny glanced at Cartman. “I might’ve told ‘em a little about you,” Cartman admitted. 

Hernandez laughed, belly-deep. It was the kind of laughter belonging to an open, joyful person, and set Kenny’s social anxiety at ease. “You are more handsome than the boss foretold,” he remarked, thoughtfully directing his next exhale over his shoulder.

His fluent, if accented, English surprised Kenny more than the compliment. “Um--thank you.” 

“Hernandez is my line of communication,” Cartman informed. “He speaks perfect English.” 

“Flattery, flattery,” Hernandez said and sent Kenny a playful wink. “It will get you somewhere." 

Introductory pleasantries exchanged, Cartman crossed his arms, scanning the perimeter for abnormalities. “How’s everything?” 

“Good, jefe, very good.” The weather-worn lines in Hernandez’s otherwise youthful face crinkled. Kenny pegged him at thirty-five; a sexy forty at the oldest. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Is there a problem?” 

Cartman’s gaze returned to his right hand mand. “I’ll tell you later.” 

Hernandez’s expression instantly smoothed. “Alright.”

The clanking noises undercutting the Spanish music had long since ceased. Kenny turned and found a ragtag group of similarly tanned and mustachioed Mexicans gathered around the docking bay’s entrance. 

Cartman waved his hand. "Break time, mi amigos.” 

They hopped down to the gravel, half lighting cigarettes of their own, the other half switching soaked wads of chewing tobacco for fresh pouches. All acknowledged Cartman with a relaxed salute, quick handshake, or a jaunty “jefe.” Kenny watched Cartman respond in kind, attempting broken yet well-pronounced Spanish. He commanded authority like a second skin; it was easy to see why he had taken a liking to this project now that Kenny had observed him in action.

Hernandez rattled off names and occupations Kenny forgot as soon as they were vocalized. Ages spanned between early twenties and late forties, though they all exhibited grit that had little to do with age and everything to do with life experience. They were men cut from the same rough-hewn cloth, loyal to Cartman for reasons that seemingly went beyond a steady under-the-table paycheck. After Cartman announced Kenny was his husband, they tipped their hats and hid their cigarettes or Gatorade-bottles-turned-spittoons in a coordinated, chivalrous performance. 

Cartman grilled for updates and status reports, Hernandez acting as translator. Afterward, they climbed back onto the docking bay in a migratory shuffle of rubber soles on cement. 

The mingled cloud of tobacco and cologne left in their wake made Kenny’s head spin. Cartman grabbed his hand, brought him back to earth. “I’m gonna show the princesa around.” 

Hernandez squashed his cigarette under his steeled-toed boot and held out his hand. “It was nice to finally meet you, Kenny.” 

Kenny accepted the gesture with his free hand; Hernandez’s warm and callous palm dwarfed his lithe fingers. “You too, man.” 

“Stop coming on to my husband,” Cartman snorted. 

Hernandez laughed that belly-deep laugh again. “Relax, gordo!” 

“And quit calling me that,” Cartman said. 

Kenny looked between them. “What’s it mean?” 

Cartman’s lips thinned. “He’s calling me fat.” 

“It’s all in good fun, jefe,” Hernandez assured. 

Cartman shooed him off. “Fun time’s over. I don’t pay you to stand around and crack jokes, do I?” 

“No,” Hernandez said, sobering. “You do not.” He swung a leg up onto the docking bay, freeze-framed in a dramatic pose. “Adios!” 

“Adios, Hernandez,” Cartman returned. 

“He’s nice,” Kenny commented once Hernandez disappeared inside. 

“Yeah,” Cartman agreed. “He’s something, alright.” 

He paraded Kenny around the quad whilst giving a rundown of each building’s history. The complex was originally a munitions warehouse back in the forties, a fact which conjured images of lipsticked Rosie Riveters shouting Transatlantic-accented hair salon gossip over cacophonous assembly lines in Kenny’s imagination. After the war ended, the complex transformed into a meat packaging subsidiary that would ultimately provide South Park most of its GDP for the next several decades. A Holocaust in its own satirical right, the butcher industry took a hit with the advent of vegans, and the complex had sat empty and unused ever since, an outdated eyesore too insignificant to justifiably finance its destruction amidst the industrial district’s greater expansion. 

The tour concluded on the fifth floor of the first warehouse. The large room had been reconverted into temporary office space compromised of several laminate tables strewn with blueprints, floorplans, and inventory reports. A whiteboard stood in the middle of the room, listing each of Cartman’s “employees” and their respective tasks; Hernandez’s name helmed the top of the delegation tree. 

The whiteboard also acted as a divider of sorts, sequestering a table littered with recognizable idiosyncrasies: crumpled Double Dew cans, a now-purposeless ashtray, a Mont Blac ballpoint pen clipped to a leatherbound memopad, a coffee mug that had mysteriously disappeared from the kitchen months ago, and, tossed over the back of the desk’s foldable chair, a North Face jacket considered “cheap” by the standard of their new wealth, therefore disposable to Cartman. 

Leave it to him to embellish a dump like this with flair like that, Kenny thought. He left the desk and stood before its adjacent windows overlooking the complex as a whole and the industrial district beyond. A switchyard could be glimpsed between smokestacks like a creek through trees. If Kenny squinted, he might’ve seen his father unhooking train cars. He still doubted whether any rightminded tech mogul would stake camp here, of all places--but of all men, Cartman would be the once to convince them. The seriousness with which he undertook his endeavors was par to none; he could sell bottled water to fish, toilet paper to monkeys, or condoms to asexuals. 

“This is nice,” Kenny said, turning away from the windows. “I didn’t get it before.” 

Cartman pushed off the exposed brick pillar he’d been leaning against. “But now?” 

“I get it. You’ve really made it your own.” 

“I like fixing stuff up. I’m good at it.” 

“You fixed me up pretty good.” 

Cartman entwined their hands, the determined glint in his eyes magnified by the incoming sunlight. “Everybody else passed up on this place. They didn’t think it was worth anything, that it was too worn down. But not me.” 

Kenny squeezed his hand. “I’m proud of you.” 

Cartman tilted his head, eyebrows quirked. “I don’t need your approval, sweetheart.” 

“I know,” Kenny said. “I still mean it.” 

“Well, it means a lot,” Cartman said, his expression flickering to something genuine. “So, thanks.” 

“You’ve always been able to see what other people can’t,” Kenny said. “The potential of things.” 

“Most people are shortsighted,” Cartman said. “Anything’s possible if you got the vision for it.” He smiled. “Having a rich husband doesn’t hurt.” 

“Or a bunch of illegal immigrants,” Kenny grinned. 

“Them, too,” Cartman said, their efforts downstairs echoing up through the floor beneath their feet. “Man, you should see them--working, you know? Really working. It’s laudable. More American than any naturalized citizen could pull off.” 

“I bet you watch ‘em close.” 

“I’m their boss.” 

“And they’re your eye candy. Admit it. They’re your own sexy Raisins girls. All sweaty and strong and dirty.” 

Cartman shrugged, nonplussed. “You caught me.” 

Kenny nudged him backwards till his ass hit the desk. “Maybe I’ll come down sometime and help out.” 

“Much as I love the concept, I dunno about the logistics.” Cartman matched Kenny’s husky gaze, cool as ice. “You can’t even use a meter saw, Ken.” 

“I can do other stuff,” Kenny said. “I’ll carry stuff. I’ll move stuff around. You can watch me work up a sweat from up here.” 

“You can’t carry shit,” Cartman said. “You’re scrawny as fuck.” 

Kenny pressed forward. The joke had gone to his head and down to his balls. He was serious now, intent on making Cartman lose his cool. “Picture it, baby. I’ll wear those cut-off shorts you like, show off my ass.” 

“You don’t have an ass,” Cartman scowled. “And I hate those shorts. They make you look like white trash.” 

“But I am white trash,” Kenny said. “You married this white trash, flat ass.” 

Cartman’s throat bobbed. “Kenny, stop. We’re at my goddamn place of business.” 

“We fuck in the studio all the time,” Kenny said. “That’s my place of business.” 

“In our house,” Cartman said. “In our own home, where the only person who’ll walk in on us is Mittens--” 

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Kenny asked. “You’re worried about your hombres walking in on us fucking?” 

“No,” Cartman said, “because it’s not on the table--” 

“The table,” Kenny huffed. “We don’t have to fuck on the table. I’ll hide under the table, suck your balls--” 

“Kenny,” Cartman hissed. “Shut up!” 

Kenny lathed the nervous sweat percolating on Cartman’s jaw, toward his ear. “I’ll be quiet. And if I’m not, I guess you’ll just have to punish me.”

“Goddamn it--” Shoulders slumped, Cartman roped his arm around Kenny’s waist, tugged Kenny flush with his side. “Ten minutes. That’s all you get, horn dog, you hear me?” 

“We’ll be done way before then,” Kenny promised. 

Cartman shoved Kenny away and plopped into the foldable chair, metal creaking, papers flouncing everywhere with dramatic flourish. He snapped at the floor between his feet. “Alright, asshole, let’s see what you’re made of.” 

Kenny’s dopey grin flagged. “Wait, you really want me to?” 

“You offered, did you not?” Cartman asked. 

“Er, it was more of, like, sexy talk,” Kenny said. “It was a fantasy.” 

“A fantasy,” Cartman deadpanned, his palm flat on his knee, elbow cocked akimbo. “You’re telling me that your fantasies consist of sucking me off in an old fucking warehouse, where my guileless Mexican muchachos can drop in on us at any moment, their untimely arrival heralded only by a scandalized ay dios mio?” 

Kenny winked. “Not bad, since I came up with it on the fly, right?” 

“We can discuss your lack of creativity later,” Cartman said. He leaned back in his seat, kicked his boots out in a sprawl wide enough for Kenny to crawl down to his knees. “You might’ve been kidding, but I’m not.” 

“Damn, okay.” Kenny bit his lip, his boner thickening to painful dimensions. “That’s totally cool, but--” 

“Oh my god,” Cartman groaned. “What ever is the matter, love of my life, that impedes you from sucking my balls?” 

Kenny had indulged Cartman’s quasi-exhibitionist fancies often enough to have developed foresight that went beyond a mouthful of cock. “The aftermath?” 

“Swallow good,” Cartman advised. “You can’t speak ideas like that into existence then not follow through just ‘cause you’re worried about a little spunk.” He thumped his heels. “Now get down here, damn it!” 

Kenny lowered on his hands and knees into the film of dust that layered the stripped floorboards, exceedingly too tall for to be hunchbacked underneath the table. Up close, he could see all the minute tears and stains in Cartman’s jeans, the worn cigarette pack-shaped tread in his left pocket, the outline of his dick as it sought the sanctity of Kenny’s warm, wet mouth. Kenny freed the poor guy from its metallic entrapment, neglecting the length stabbing his own inner thigh. 

Cartman pushed his jeans down mid-thigh, his other hand tangled in Kenny’s hair. “Hurry up! Eight minutes left.” 

Kenny cricked his neck up; the edge of the table blocked everything besides the underside of Cartman’s stubbled double-chin from view. “Huh?”

“You wasted time yapping,” Cartman said. 

“Aw, what,” Kenny whined. “You didn’t tell me the clock already started!” 

“You should assume that when I say ‘let’s see what you’re made of’ we’re off to the races. So far I’m pretty unimpressed.” Cartman yanked Kenny against his crotch by his hair, cutting out his limited field of vision entirely. “Quit running your mouth and put it to use already.” 

Kenny spluttered, caught off guard, thought to himself he should probably give up any pretense of being on guard around Cartman, the thought summarily dashed by the penis in his eye. 

The penis wasn’t that big by any means. In fact it was somewhat small, smaller than average, but oh boy, did it have lots of potential. When the moon had concluded its monthly pirouette and the clock struck midnight and Cartman’s reproductive cycle decided to work as intended, that cock came out to fucking party--directly into Kenny’s asshole. Kenny still got funky from time to time but he was way past his partying years, especially given how premature he started off, both literally in terms of drugs and alcohol and metaphorically in terms of sexual activity. So whilst he enjoyed a good shindig every now and then he was old and boring and self-assured enough to admit that he preferred chilling at home in his jammies, Cartman’s adorable cocklet prodding rather than impaling his sober ass. 

It fit perfectly on his tongue, for one. No gag reflex to worry about. Outside of ruts, it left his ass pain-free, polite, almost, in its modesty, which made for a quicker rebound and thus more sex sooner. Kenny had garaged many penises, each different and unique, and in his own professional slut opinion he’d take convenience over caliber any day, an opinion which he had explained in great detail on so many, many, many occasions that Cartman had finally stopped being self-conscious about it and started wielding his schlong like the mini Excalibur it was. 

“Six minutes,” Cartman barked. 

Kenny slid his arms up and around Cartman’s waist, let his hands dangle free, wrists pressed against Cartman’s hips. Remembering his original, penultimate task, he released Cartman’s cock with a goodbye kiss and ducked down, reverently opening his lips unto the velvety, hairy texture of Cartman’s proportional balls. 

Cartman wiggled his hips, Kenny’s hair coiled so tight around his fist that tears sprouted at Kenny’s cornea. “That’s what I’m talking about.” 

“Mmmmf,” Kenny replied. He mouthed Cartman’s sack, swirling his tongue left and right, indecisive. Cartman inadvertently picked which direction to take for him, folding his face into his left thigh. Kenny sucked his ball into his mouth, rolled it around, Cartman’s musk filling his nostrils. He wanted to put it in a fucking candle. Eric Cartman’s stank: sweat, salt, peppery contempt, a hint of buttery sweetness, a touch of whiskey, an undercurrent of tobacco--and something Kenny had never scented before. 

His brow furrowed. Using the inside of his cheeks, he applied pressure to Cartman’s ball, lapped it with his tongue--yeah, it tasted different too. He switched to its uneven counterpart--brothers, not twins, said no one ever--and found the same unfamiliar flavor lurking behind the taste Kenny knew so well he could write a Bath and Body Works advert to describe it in aromatically-impossible language. 

He eased back, resting his chin on the taut line of Cartman’s jeans, eyes narrowed at Cartman’s genitalia. It was like someone had switched an impostor for his real cock and balls, someone who had done their research. But Kenny, acquainted as he was, picked up on the difference. 

Unconcerned with any countdown, the proverbial hourglass smashed, Cartman loosened Kenny’s hair. “What’s wrong?” he asked, sweetly exerting effort to mask his disappointment. 

Kenny dug his toes into the floor, emerged from under the table, and looked up the incline of Cartman’s torso toward his flushed, confused face. “You smell different.” 

“Uh,” Cartman said. “What?” 

“You taste different, too,” Kenny said. “I gotta finish, obviously, just to make sure--” 

“Hold on, hold the fucking phone,” Cartman said. “You keep track of that shit?” 

“Well, duh,” Kenny said. “Don’t you?” 

Cartman chuckled. “No, Kenny, I do not.” His eyes widened when Kenny pouted, genuinely offended. “Or, uh--of course I know what you fucking taste like, but there isn’t that much nuance. You taste like yourself. Don’t I taste like myself?” 

“Yeah,” Kenny said. “It’s mostly the same--just different.” 

“Different as in?” Cartman prompted. 

“Uh, hmm, lemme--” Kenny bobbed down and sampled the pre-cum beading at Cartman’s tip, smacked his lips. Cartman swallowed a moan, not as scientifically-minded as Kenny. “It’s, um, I dunno--lighter, I guess?” 

“Lighter,” Cartman said. “Easier on the palate, you could say?” 

Kenny beamed. “Yeah! Exactly.” 

“Then eat my tasty fucking dick,” Cartman demanded, shoving Kenny back under the table, uncaring as to whether Kenny cracked his skull. 

“Watch it, jackass, or I’ll bite your tasty dick off!” Kenny shook his head at the weeping slit in front of him, whispered, “I wouldn’t actually do that, you know--” 

“Are you speaking to it now?” Cartman asked. “Should I leave the room, let you have your privacy?” 

Kenny cut the jokes--he was just too hilarious, sometimes--and commenced the big finale, swallowing Cartman down to his base, forehead pressed into his navel, arms tight around his hips. The naval which currently housed a cluster of their shared DNA, the hips which Kenny suspected would widen as that DNA grew into an embryo grew into a baby, and--holy shit--realization struck him like a knot up the ass, caused his cock to strain in his pants. 

Cartman, obliviously unaware, clutched Kenny close. The tip of his dick grazed Kenny’s uvula, unleashed a torrent of oddly sweet cum. Kenny gobbled it down no problem, a culinary connoisseur, the sweet tang that much sweeter due to its origin. 

“Princess,” Cartman hissed, jutting in time with the aftershocks spasming on Kenny’s tongue, “you can stop, now, thank you, I didn’t mean literally eat me, Jesus Christ.” 

Kenny popped off, assigned himself the task of cleaning Cartman’s rapidly softening shaft. He wanted more of that daddy delight, that gestational garnish--

Cartman bodily chucked him away. “Knock it off, fuck!” 

“Sorry,” Kenny gasped, skidding on his elbows. “Sorry, shit, uh--” 

Cartman bent in half. His face appeared beneath the edge of the table, mildly concerned. “What’s gotten into you? You’re weirding me out.” 

Kenny licked his lips, licked his chin, licked his fingers, insatiable for Cartman’s not-so-mysterious mystery flavor. “You’re fucking pregnant, man.” 

“Yes,” Cartman said, “I am. Your point?” 

“You taste pregnant,” Kenny clarified. 

Cartman’s cheeks burned. He straightened out of view. Kenny would’ve been upset had it not given him a front row seat to the sight of Cartman tucking himself back into his pants. “You think so?” 

“What else could it be?” Kenny asked. “It’s, like, limited time only, you know? Like a shamrock shake from McDonald’s.” 

The chair screeched across the floor. “That’s great, Kenny. I’m glad my balls are appetizing.” 

“Hey, no, come back.” Kenny crawled after Cartman’s retreating footsteps, flat on his belly. “It’s not a bad thing. I like it!” 

Cartman whirled on his heels, fists clenched. “I am incubating our unborn child, and all you have to say is I taste good?” 

Kenny’s boner noped the fuck out. He pushed up into a sitting position, scratched his jaw flaky with Cartman’s cum, then firmly laced his hands around his shins before his dick got anymore bad ideas. “Um, that’s not all I have to say. But I would like to add for the record it’s sexy as hell.” 

“It’s sexy as dog shit,” Cartman said, pacing now, making Kenny feel like he was the center of some Satanic summoning ritual that involved a lot of stomping and yelling. “It is the last thing I want to be reminded of when I’m trying to get off!” 

“Babe,” Kenny said. “Eventually you’re not gonna be able to not be reminded of it.” 

“Oh, really,” Cartman drawled. “Really, Kenny, I had no idea! I had this great plan where I was just gonna ignore the giant, inconvenient mass attached to me, but you ruined it! Thanks!” 

“Can you stop for a second and calm down?” Kenny besieged. “Look, I’m sorry if I offended you, but I meant it as a compliment.” 

Cartman halted in front of him. “Would you take it as a compliment if I said you tasted, and I quote, like a shamrock shake from McDonald’s?”

“I didn’t say that exactly,” Kenny said. “But, yeah, I would.” 

“Well, you don’t taste like a shamrock shake,” Cartman said. “You taste like a man who showers only twice a week and whose diet consists exclusively of chicken tenders and citrus fruit.” 

“But you like it,” Kenny said. 

“I tolerate it,” Cartman said. “It is part and parcel of pleasing you sexually. I don’t fetishize it!” 

Kenny frowned. “I’m not fetishizing you, Eric. I’m your husband, telling you you’re a goddamn snack. Is that a fucking crime?” 

“Yes, in this context, it is,” Cartman pressed. “I’ve seen the porn you watch, don’t think I haven’t! You’ve got Pornhub’s whole fucking preggo tag bookmarked!” 

“Uh,” Kenny said. “I was, um, into that way before any of this--” 

“That’s even worse,” Cartman moaned. “Like, what the fuck, Kenny? Are we about to embark on a journey punctuated by sentimental milestones, or your weird masturbatory checklist?” 

“Both...?” Kenny ventured. 

“I can’t believe you,” Cartman said. “You’re such a slut!” 

Kenny winced at the barbed delivery of the word. “Man, come on.” 

“You come on,” Cartman said. “If you could turn your dick off for two seconds, you might get enough blood back in your brain to realize how fucked up you are!” 

“You’re the one making this weird, not me,” Kenny said. “It’s natural! It’s, like, part and parcel of you being pregnant.” 

“No,” Cartman said, “it is the first of many mutations that will overtake my body, until I am but a parody of my former self!” 

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Kenny sighed. “Don’t be so dramatic.” 

“It’s all downhill from here, sweetheart,” Cartman said. “I want you to remember me as the witty, handsome beefcake you see standing before you, not the disgusting, hysterical slug I’ll become--” 

“Okay, time out!” Kenny vaulted off the floor and grasped Cartman’s trembling fists. “What the hell are you saying, that you’re worried I’m not gonna find you attractive? Because there’s literally zero chance of that ever happening for any reason.”   
  
Cartman tried stepping back, but Kenny held him tight. He retaliated against his imprisonment by digging his nails into Kenny’s palms. “This isn’t about you, Kenny. This is about my own self image, which, surprise, is not magically improved by your kinky bullshit!” 

“It’s not kinky,” Kenny said. “Or, okay, maybe a little. But it’s not just that.” 

Cartman gave him a flat look. “What is it, then?” 

“You,” Kenny said. “That’s the reason. Not that you’re pregnant, but that it’s you who’s pregnant. If that makes sense.” 

“It doesn’t, but I know what you mean,” Cartman said, because of course he did. “Go on.” 

Kenny leaned down, grazed his lips across Cartman’s clenched jaw. “All I’ve been able to think about is how you got my kid in there, and it turns me on like crazy. I know that don’t change how you feel--but I can’t change how I feel, either.” 

“I wish I could say I’m flattered,” Cartman muttered, then paused. Kenny kissed the corner of his mouth. He continued, eyes trained on the floor, “All this shit you’re looking forward to is the same shit that I’m terrified of.” 

“Like what?” Kenny asked. 

Cartman looked up with another caustic stare. “Getting big as a whale. Lactating all over the place. Going crazy. Being dependent on you for everything. I’m gonna be freaking out and you’ll be jacking off.” 

“Well...” Kenny cleared his throat. “The first two sound kinda hot, to be honest. But the rest, man, that’s baloney. You ain’t gonna go crazy. At least, crazier than you already are for marrying me--” 

“Self-degradation is not helping your case,” Cartman interjected. 

Kenny smiled. “See? I can’t get a word in edgewise without you telling me off. So, there goes your dependence or whatever. And I’m not gonna beat my meat while you’re freaking out. I’ll wait till after you calm down, like a gentleman.” 

“If you were a gentleman you’d shut the fuck up,” Cartman said. “I really, really don’t want to think about any of this right now. I really don’t want to have this conversation.” 

“Okay,” Kenny said. “Okay, that’s alright.” He let go of Cartman’s hands and swept backwards, kicking up a wave of grime. “You’re not for real mad at me, are you?”   
  
The dust settled. Cartman settled, too. “No. I guess--if the roles were reversed--I’d probably feel the same way you do. And you’d probably be into it even more than you are now.” 

“Ain’t that a thought,” Kenny smirked. 

“But you aren’t,” Cartman said, “and I’m not, so. I don’t know. Let’s just pretend nothing’s different.” 

“I can’t do that,” Kenny said. “I can’t ignore the fact that you’re pregnant, and you can’t either.” 

“Obviously,” Cartman said. “I can’t ignore puking my guts out every morning. I’m not telling you to ignore it. Just play it cool.” 

“Alright,” Kenny acquiesced. It was impossible to follow Cartman’s logic sometimes, and he just had to trust that Cartman would steer them both right.

“I’m glad we cleared that up,” Cartman said. “And by that I mean nothing is clear, and I don’t feel better about anything whatsoever. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work.” 

Heavy footsteps clomped upstairs as if on cue. “Jefe, you in there?” 

“Si,” Cartman called. He raised an eyebrow at Kenny. “Get lost. I’ve got business to take care of.” 

He snatched the hem of Kenny’s jacket as Kenny obediently passed. Kenny stumbled, using Cartman’s outstreched arm as a balance. “What’d I do now--” 

Cartman cut him off with a chaste kiss. “We’ll talk later, alright? About everything.” 

“Sure,” Kenny said, struggling to remember the day’s multiple points of contention when faced with Cartman’s immediate, contentious demeanor. “Seriously, are you okay? I’m sorry.” 

“I’m slow on the uptake,” Cartman said. “Maybe you can help me catch up later tonight. In bed. If you catch my drift.” 

Kenny grabbed a handful of empty air and stowed it into his back pocket. “Caught it.” 

They turned at the sound of Hernandez stepping into the room. “Oh--ah, am I interrupting something?” 

One second away from deploying another kiss, Cartman parted and dropped his arm to his side. “Nope.” 

“Are you sure?” Hernandez asked. “I can come back--” 

“Naw, it’s bueno,” Kenny said. He gave Cartman’s stomach a friendly pat, dodged Cartman’s irritated scowl, and skirted past a befuddled Hernandez, his totally nonchalant exit echoing up five flights of steel stairs.

The day was coming to an end. Dark sunlight cloaked the quad, casting the immigrant workers in auburn shadows as they milled about nursing imported beers and cigarettes over card and domino games, decompressing before heading home--probably, Kenny guessed with a twinge of presumptuous guilt, some seedy motel on the edge of town. He awkwardly dismissed offers to be dealt in, universally communicated by beckoning waves, and strode toward the parking lot. Cartman could charm his way through the language barrier, but Kenny barely socialized with his friends of thirty years, let alone strangers who didn’t speak English.

A train horn stilled his feet halfway to the Tesla. Once, twice, three times it caterwauled. Growing up, Kenny had spent many nights cursing the railroads that fenced his house; as an adult he was surprised to miss the one-two clangor of the warning bell, the red lights flashing through his blinds, the vibration of the earth as the passing train chugged onward to its faraway destination. 

With a mix of nostalgia and curiosity he followed the sound behind the warehouses’ posteriors. Broken beer bottles, busted syringes, tattered sleeping bags, and abandoned trash littered the backlot buttressed by an easily-surmountable chainlink fence. Cartman never said the squatting site was that popular, but with its vicinity to the tracks leading in and out of town Kenny should’ve known he was downplaying its curbside appeal. 

Not that it mattered, as Cartman promised he wouldn’t patrol alone anymore. Still, the possibility of what could have happened during the years preceding his pregnancy left a bad taste in Kenny’s mouth. The crazy bastard reveled in theatrical, moonlit violence. Kenny thought back to all the times he slunk home late at night and wondered if he’d been hiding stab wounds behind bandages and tough guy dismissal. 

Kenny swallowed his discontent and veered toward the fence, where hardy fronds blocked the nearby train tracks. He summoned his detective skills and vagabond know-how, searching for a point of entry. He located a trafficked strip of flat ground, dug his boots into the laddered notches in the fence bent by the weight of repeated climbing, and dropped down on the other side in a graceless hunch. 

A grassy median separated the fence from the tracks. Snipped to lessen interference, the plants hadn’t been groomed in awhile and were steadily regrowing--signs that Cartman had done something to deter new arrivals by whichever method he deemed most effective. Kenny brushed this off, along with the leaves in his hair, and shimmied down the beaten path, knees bent to avoid the overhead brush. He straightened as the greenery thinned, elongating his stride to stretch the ache out of his joints; rusty, he thought, not old. If he couldn’t adequately sneak around, how the hell was he supposed to keep up with his kid? 

The brush gave way to a tunnel of paralleled pine trees. Kenny embarked toward the needled aperture which opened onto the train tracks, running his fingers over the fence, the repetitive twang of steel bouncing back against his palm reminding him of his unchaperoned junkyard adventuring as a youth. All he needed was a BB gun and a pocketknife and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. It’d been fun, but also the source of many ill-timed scrapes and fractured limbs, and he’d be damned if his kid repeated the same harebrained mistakes. 

Case in point-- His fingers caught on a snag in the fence; pain sparked through his wrist, up his arm. He lifted his hand and found a small slice bisecting his index finger, all the more bloody for its superficiality. 

“Well, fuck,” he mumbled to himself.

Someone had cut a hole the size of a grown man on all fours into the fence. Its even edges shone bright in the dusky sunlight; Kenny carefully tested one of the clipped links on his thumb. Perfectly sharp, no time to dull. 

“Well, fuck,” he repeated. 

This wasn’t the doing of some hobo--it was too methodical, too clean. Kenny doubted Cartman was aware of the security breach. Or Hernandez, or any of the other men. Somebody would be getting their ass chewed out for the oversight. Kenny looked up at the brick facade before him, saw that it was topped with the window attached to Cartman’s office; he then squinted at the pines behind him, saw that they balustraded the neighboring switchyard. With no other signs of foulplay nearby--clues, the thirteen year old inside of him excitedly provided--shouldered through the pines, he crossed the tracks, and stood on the precipice of the switchyard. 

Railroads sprouted from every direction, coalesced, then fanned out again, each packed with multicolored train cars. Kenny jogged down the slope, stirring dirt under his heels. He stayed at the switchyard’s outskirts, not wanting to get lost or run into the distant blobs of men he spotted working at the switchyard’s epicenter. 

The train cars around him sat in a hodgepodge maze, all decommissioned--perfect targets for amateur graffiti artists. Kenny traced the cars’ colorful miasmas, even chanced hopping up a few ladders and peeking at their empty interiors. There had to be something to find, something to justify the paranoia causing the hairs on the nape of his neck to stand. 

His finger was still bleeding. He wrapped it in his fist, squeezed tight. Another train horn clamored. Once, twice, three times Kenny’s bones rattled. He checked above the pines, Cartman’s office window barely discernible. Could Cartman see him? And if so, what did he think? Kenny knew he was being stupid--doing exactly what he didn’t want Cartman to do, and for what? A baseless premonition? 

No. Somebody had trespassed his husband’s property. But who? A protective instinct flared in his gut--what if the trespasser, whoever they were, came after Cartman, and by extension their unborn child? 

Kenny sagged against the train car at his back, overwhelmed with the implications. Cartman was too self-centered, too wrapped up in his own anxiety for the truth of it to sink in yet, but Kenny understood now that there was a lot more at stake than pride, property, or money. 

He rounded the train car, intending to return to the source of the investigation, when a high-contrast blip arrested his eye. Staunch against a background of faded, unintelligible tags, a stenciled, black-and-white image of a silhouetted girl crowned with a red crosshair gleamed waxy in the light.

Maybe it was a coincidence. Or maybe not. Regardless, Kenny sprinted up the slope, crashed through the pines--and tripped over the tracks. He caught himself too late, knocked his teeth into the raised railhead. Skull buzzing, palms gouged with loose ballast, he scrambled to his feet, burst through the underbrush, and wormed through the hole in the fence, another blaze of pain searing his cheekbone. 

Not registering any of the blood dripping from his face or hands, Kenny yanked at a side entrance. It didn’t budge. He ran around to the quad. Everybody dropped their cards at the sight of him. He ignored their concerned yelling--"Princesa, princesa, princesa!"--and threw the warehouse’s front door open, rocketed up the stairs two at a time, painting the black railing red with his blood. 

Cartman and Hernandez were already on their way out of the office, if not drawn by the noise in the quad then by Kenny’s clangorous approach. “Eric,” he gasped. “Eric, there’s--the fence, you have to see--” 

“Kenny, what the fuck--” Cartman grasped his shoulders, examined him at an arm’s length as Hernandez rooted for a first aid kit in the peripheral. 

“Somebody broke in,” Kenny said, “and there was this picture on a train--” 

Hernandez came forward, holding a white box. “Sit, princesa.” 

Kenny shook his head. “No, you guys, you don’t understand--” 

“Ken,” Cartman said, injecting pure alpha authority into his tone that made Kenny melt in his grip. “Calm down. Relax.” 

“But--” 

“Nope. Don’t talk. Take a breather. And a seat.” 

Cartman pushed Kenny into a chair. Hernandez pulled up another; Cartman sat down and opened the first aid kit on the table beside them, flipped Kenny’s hands over. They were scraped raw and exposed, embedded with ballast. His eyes widened. “Sweetheart, what...” 

Hernandez lingered a few paces away, politely averting his eyes. “There’s a hole in the fence,” Kenny told him. He met Kenny’s gaze. “Right behind this building. Somebody broke in.” 

Cartman turned. “Hernandez--” 

“On it,” Hernandez said. Kenny wasn’t shocked to watch him whip out a pistol from his vest. 

“Take Lopez and Garcia with you,” Cartman said. 

“Si, jefe,” Hernandez affirmed. 

The office door thumped shut. 

“Eric,” Kenny said. 

Cartman retrieved a set of tweezers from the first aid kit and began plucking the debris out of his palms. “Why the hell were you back there?” 

“Looking around,” Kenny said. “You didn’t tell me it was that bad--” 

“It’s not that bad,” Cartman said. “I cleaned it out.” 

“Apparently not,” Kenny snapped, his irritation worsened by Cartman digging around his skin. “Ouch! Watch it!” 

“I’m trying, princess. This stuff’s buried deep.” Cartman looked up. “Shit like that wouldn’t go undetected on my watch. But I haven’t around that often, because, you know--” 

“Because you’re pregnant with our baby,” Kenny said. 

Cartman ducked his head and resumed cleaning Kenny’s hands. “Yeah, because of that. My priorities are exactly where they’re supposed to be, alright? So you can quit coming at me.” 

“Are they?” Kenny wondered. “Why are you so dead set on this place?” 

“Because it’s mine,” Cartman said. “It’s my deal, it’s my thing, and I want to do it.” 

“You could’ve just kept flipping houses,” Kenny said. 

“This is more than a house,” Cartman said. “It’s a facility. It’s a business venture.” 

“You’re getting too big for your britches,” Kenny said. “I told you months ago, remember? You want more, more, more--nothing’s ever enough--” 

“Easy for you to say,” Cartman said. “You went to the MoMA, you ungrateful asshole! Can’t I have something, too? Can’t I advance my career, too?” 

“Some career,” Kenny scoffed. “You’re a goddamn scam artist, Eric. This is just another one of your schemes--” Cartman ripped out a piece of his skin with a chunk of ballast. “Ow, fuck! You’re hurting me!” 

“You’re hurting me,” Cartman said. He tossed the tweezers aside and picked up a floorplan off the table. “Look! I made this!” 

Kenny studied the paper scored with Cartman’s blocky scrawl, understanding none of the architectural notes or complex measurements. “When’d you learn all that?” 

“I taught myself,” Cartman said. “It’s just math.” 

“Looks like pretty serious math,” Kenny said. 

Cartman let the floorpan fall drift back to the table and rifled the first aid kit. “Maybe to you.” 

“You never told me that you’re a fucking DIY architect,” Kenny said. “Or about your guys, or--anything. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Because you always act like I’m doing this just to swing my dick around,” Cartman said. He tore open an antiseptic wipe. “This is gonna sting.” 

Kenny squirmed as Cartman cleansed the blood off his hands. “Ow, ow, ow--”

Cartman rubbed the inside of his wrist, smirking. “Where’s that legendary pain tolerance of yours? Or does it only apply to sex?” 

“Shut up,” Kenny huffed.

“I’m almost done,” Cartman assured. He folded two squares of gauze lathered with ointment and tapped them to Kenny’s palms, even stuck a bandaid on his index finger to be cute. “There. How’s that?” 

Kenny flexed his hands. “Better. Thanks.” 

Cartman pushed his chin up and examined his cheekbone. “You cut your face, too.” 

“It’s not as bad,” Kenny said. “Leave it.” 

Cartman dabbed the cut anyway. “You scared me, princess. What happened?”

“I heard a train,” Kenny said. “I wanted to go see the tracks, so I followed it.” 

“You’re such a kid sometimes,” Cartman said. “I’ll getcha a model locomotive. You can watch it chugga-chugga-choo-choo all day.”

“Listen,” Kenny said. “I went around back, climbed the fence to check out the rest. Walked down a little and saw that hole. Whoever cut it knew what they were doing. I didn’t see anything else, so I went to the switchyard.” 

“The what?” Cartman asked. 

“The switchyard,” Kenny said. “That big old field with all the trains? My dad works there. It’s where they switch cargo around.” He nodded toward the windows. “You coulda seen me from here.” 

“I was busy talking to Hernandez,” Cartman said. “Otherwise I would’ve lugged your ass back inside, trust me.” 

“Well I’m glad you didn’t,” Kenny said. “Because I saw something else, too. On one of the train cars. There was this picture. It looked a lot like Banksy’s. It’s a sign--a warning--” 

Cartman slapped the first aid kit shut. “Are you kidding me?” 

“I’m serious,” Kenny said. “Something weird is going on. He just called this morning and now his graffiti just so happens to pop up?” 

“If it was painted all over our front door, I’d think something of it,” Cartman said, reclining in his seat. “But that’s not even on our property. And you don’t know where that train came from, how long it’s been sitting there. It could’ve been some copycat kid from Detroit.” 

Kenny hitched forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m not crazy, Eric.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Cartman said. “I think you’re nervous. You’re connecting dots that don’t exist.” 

“But the fence,” Kenny said. 

“Just another bum,” Cartman dismissed. 

“I was a bum,” Kenny said. “Bums don’t do something like that--” 

“You haven’t been on the streets in ten years,” Cartman said. “They’re evolving. They’re getting smarter. This place was one of their favorite hamlets--of course they’re not gonna give it up without a fight.” 

“It’s Banksy,” Kenny said. “I can feel it.” 

“Just think for a second,” Cartman said. “Why the fuck would he go through all that trouble to threaten us? There’s a million other warehouses he can hide his dumb paintings. He probably calls fifteen people a day, tries scaring ‘em into saying yes with his stupid robot voice. Well, I’m not scared--and you shouldn’t be either.”

“What about the auction?” Kenny asked. “Why’d he want to prove himself so bad?” 

“The drama of it all,” Cartman guessed. “All the success has gone to his head. He thinks he’s king of the world, that people’ll sign up to kiss his ass--but not me!” 

“Okay,” Kenny relented, unconvinced. “It’s not Banksy, fine. But somebody still trespassed. You gotta call the cops--” 

Cartman snorted. “Fuck the police. You think I want cops sniffing around, get my workforce deported?” 

“Then you need to ditch this place,” Kenny said. “I know you care about it, and your guys, and I’m sorry I never realized how much it meant to you, but it’s just too weird.” 

“Even if I entertained the idea, which I’m not, I couldn’t,” Cartman said. “A deal’s a deal. That tech company’s counting on me. If I don’t follow through we’ll be covering the loss.” 

“I don’t care how much money it is,” Kenny said. 

“Really?” Cartman asked. “With a kid on the way, you don’t care? Where are your priorities, huh?” 

Kenny sighed. “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry.” 

Cartman grasped Kenny’s bandaged hands and placed them on his stomach. “I need you to see me through this. The California cocksuckers, I can handle. Banksy, I can handle. The cracked out hobos, I can handle. But this,” he reiterated, pressing Kenny’s hands deeper, “I can’t handle. Not without you. I need you to play it cool, okay?” 

“I’ll be cool,” Kenny said. “I’ll be cool, Eric, I swear.” He twisted Cartman’s jacket in his fingers. “Just be careful. Please. You be cool, too.” 

“I’m always cool,” Cartman grinned. “I’m super kewl.” 

“Stop joking,” Kenny said. “Promise me.” 

Cartman released his hands and looped him into a hug. “I promise, princess. I’ll take care of everything, long as you take care of me. That’s how we’ve always worked, right?” 

Kenny tucked his nose into Cartman’s neck, still cradling his stomach. “Yeah.” 

Cartman squeezed him tight. “Poppa’ll protect you from big, bad Banksy. Okay? Say okay, poppa.” 

Kenny smiled. “Okay, poppa.” 

“Okay, momma.” Cartman nudged Kenny upward, kissed him slow, steady, strong. “I gotta go deal with this shit. Then we’ll go home, marathon Law and Order, and you can fuck me to next Tuesday. How’s that sound?” 

“Awesome,” Kenny sighed, wanting nothing more than to hold Cartman close, safe within their home, and drown all his worries in Christopher Meloni’s sexy face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spot the national lampoon reference for 500 points. also this entire fic was born from the line "you're busting my balls, banksy!"
> 
> bonus sketches: 


End file.
